A Monster With Two Tales
by OughtaKnowBetter
Summary: Six pieces of code, three agencies, two corpses, and only one corporation trying to keep the Eppes brothers from finding out what going on.
1. Chapter 1

A Monster with Two Tales

* * *

><p>Obligatory disclaimer: does anyone realize just how difficult it is to come up with a fresh approach to the simple phrase 'gee, not mine'?<p>

Author's Note: I'd like to publically acknowledge Jane Mays for her efforts with this story. If it weren't for her, I'd still be letting this one languish.

* * *

><p>Colby Granger let his knees lift him up from where he'd squatted to examine the windowsill at close range. "No question about it," was his opinion. "Sniper's nest. Somebody's been planning this for a while. Got some scratches here on the sill, where the sniper rested his weapon. Some are fresh, and some are old. Like I said: someone's been thinking about this for more than thirty seconds."<p>

Behind him, Lt. Gary Walker of the LAPD nodded, vindicated. "That's what me and mine thought," he told the group. "Eppes?"

Don Eppes shrugged. It was either that or heave a sigh, and somehow a sigh didn't have enough indignation in it to describe what he was thinking.

The scene across the street was bloody and ugly, and Don was grateful to have left the remnants to David Sinclair to deal with along with their LAPD counterparts. He, Colby, and Walker were ferreting out the sniper's nest to see what they could discover. There wasn't much question as to 'how' the murder had occurred. Now it was up to the FBI and LAPD to figure out the 'who'. 'Why' would also be helpful.

The victim had been one George Remini, one of several vice presidents of SW Chemicals, Inc., a company that kept its name out of the news and its wallet fat. The bullet with Remini's name on it had shattered the large glass window to the conference room and gone on to put a substantial hole in his chest. He'd started gushing blood at that point, gasping for air and yelling. His fellow vice presidents had called 911 and anyone else they could think of with a modicum of health-related knowledge—the company occupational health nurse had arrived with bandages and CPR—but the damage had been too great. Four hours later the nearest hospital trauma team gave the bad news to the wife and the company executives that all the surgery in the world wasn't going to be enough to save the victim's life and everyone had better stop wasting health care dollars on a lost cause.

There wasn't much at the crime scene itself. It was obvious that more than ninety nine percent of the blood on the rug belonged to the victim, and it was equally obvious that no one present in the conference room at the time was the sniper. Eppes and team could rule them out immediately.

Don didn't think they'd find anything in the conference room, but there were reports to be filled out and he had a choice of himself, David, or Colby to do it for the FBI. Colby would be slower than cold molasses flowing uphill on a rainy Sunday afternoon, and Don himself realized that rank had its privileges. That left David, and Don grinned grimly to himself. David Sinclair was also less likely to put up a fuss. The man would do his job, no matter how little he liked it, and go home at the end of the day that much closer to a promotion and the ability to delegate unpleasant tasks from himself to others.

Besides, Don had justification for taking Colby along with him. Colby Granger, prior to joining the FBI, had been with the Army Rangers, an elite fighting unit. The man knew his stuff, and would be able to ferret out a few more pieces of intel in the room across the street where the sniper had sat.

The room across the street from SW Chemicals belonged to an upscale hotel, one that catered to businessmen instead of actors, and thus avoided its share of drama and news cameras. The Lyonsgate management team was clearly not happy to be part of an FBI investigation, but manfully swallowed their disappointment and cooperated with the enforcement arm of the legal department in order to get the ordeal over and done with as quickly as possible; nothing if not practical. The sniper's room was twelve floors up, slightly higher and looking down into the conference room where the group, including Remini, had been conducting business. There wasn't much to see in the hotel suite, but the three were still careful not to touch anything. There was always the chance that the murderer had left a fingerprint or two behind.

Frankly, Don doubted it. The murderer had left none of his tools; no scope, no weapon, no convenient cigarette ashes in the ashtray—oh, wait. This was a non-smoking room. There were no ashtrays. Even the glass in the bathroom was still wrapped and unused.

He scanned the rest of the room. It was pleasant, and probably cost a small fortune for whoever got put up there for the night—this was, after all, Los Angeles, where the real estate prices were outrageous. The overriding theme was beige: beige carpet, beige walls, beige prints edged with beige matting and beige frames. Clearly Lyonsgate's management wanted to bore their patrons to sleep each night. The bed, a large California king, bore a beige spread with—egads!—a dark brown stitched-in pattern. The chocolate mint sat untouched on the pillow. Don frowned to himself: high probability that the sniper was not a fan of chocolate. No fingerprints there.

"Don't see no footprints, neither, Eppes." Walker was reading the FBI agent's mind, doing his own assessment. "Looks like this place has been recently vacuumed. You think maybe the maid's been in here, tidying up?"

Don looked more closely at the tracks in the carpet. Then he looked again; something wasn't right. "You sure, Walker? These don't look like any vacuum treads that I've seen. Too even. Too parallel. Too wide."

Walker pulled himself back to the carpet. "You're right, Eppes. Didn't see that." He folded his arms across his chest, puzzled. "What d'you suppose made those marks?"

"Good question." Don straightened himself up. "We can ask Forensics to take a look while they dust the place. What did the manager say? Anybody staying in this room?"

Walker shook his head. "Nobody, Eppes. Room's been empty for the last two weeks."

"How about the housekeeping staff? They see anything?"

"Not a thing."

"How about anybody lose their key card?" Colby put in. "Whoever it was had to get in somehow, and these locks aren't the easiest to get through. You gotta know what you're doing."

Walker agreed. "And they didn't leave any scratches. Real puzzling."

Don sighed. "Let's see what David's come up with, and why someone would want to kill the vice president of a chemical company. After all, it's not as though hydrogen peroxide tends to have a lot of enemies, or even competition. Anybody up for checking out the wife?"

* * *

><p>If asked, Professor Charles Eppes would not be able to identify the music that had been blaring through his headphones for the past three hours. In fact, understanding that three hours had passed was also beyond him—the time simply flew by while he was 'in the zone'. The white board in front of him had little space left for additional equations, yet Charlie continued to squeeze them in where ever he could, faster and faster as the thoughts flowed from his brain cells onto the board.<p>

This particular session was in the classroom where earlier this morning he had taught Freshman Calc for math majors. That class was one that he always enjoyed because it consisted of young minds who had already discovered the joy of math, the wonder of how an equation would simply _fit_ together. They challenged him, those minds; they asked questions, and the questions—not always right but _always_ thinking—showed real insight into the world of math.

Something one of them had said struck a bell for him, and once they'd trickled out of the classroom Charlie had turned to the white board and jotted it down. No, what he jotted hadn't been exactly what he'd thought of, but it was close and he worked on it until it got closer and closer—there.

Yes, that was it, and it was similar to what he needed for that particular aspect of Cognitive Emergence. He'd need to alter it here, and perhaps there? Charlie stepped back to examine the overall view of what he'd just accomplished, tugging the headphones off of his ears, suddenly realizing how tight the headphones had become.

"Professor Eppes?"

"What?" Charlie whirled around, startled.

It was one of his students, but one not from his Freshman Calc class. No, this was Kate Tierney, one of the upperclassmen. She didn't have any classes with him this semester, although Amita had mentioned that Kate was in her Combinatorics and doing nicely. Charlie remembered her well, less for the fact that she used a wheelchair for getting around than her deep appreciation for math as an application tool. Physics, that was her major, and Larry Fleinhardt was already pulling strings with some of his friends at upper level universities to look favorably on her applications to graduate schools.

Charlie relaxed and pulled the headphones from around his neck, tossing them onto the desk beside him. "Hi, Kate," he greeted her. "Sorry; I didn't hear you come in. How's it going this semester?"

Kate shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Combinatorics is tough."

Charlie nodded. "Amita says you're one of her top students in the class."

"I am?" Kate's face lit up. "Good; I thought I was bombing it."

"Just keep at it," Charlie reassured her. "It's a tough subject, and Amita doesn't water it down." He cocked his head. "You here for some extra help?"

"Not exactly." If Kate could have dug her toe into the floor and stared at it, she would have. The wheelchair got in the way.

This was different. Kate rarely had difficulty asking for what she needed. Charlie assumed it was a trait that she'd learned when she'd had to start using the chair. Kate needed help to reach things on a tall shelf, help getting up and down to different levels in a building that had been built before such things as _civil rights_ and _handicap-accessible_ had come along. Charlie himself had led a brief fight to have the elevator repaired in a timely fashion when the Powers That Be had tried to delay over budgetary objections, and management had caved pretty quickly. The elevator had gotten fixed.

Charlie seated himself in a chair a few feet away from her, to be on the same speaking level. "What's up?"

He could almost see her gathering her courage. "I've got…kind of a project that I need help with," she confessed.

"Okay." The subject shouldn't be this hard. "Senior project?"

"Sort of. Kind of."

This was puzzling. Charlie fell back onto the safest—for him—topic. "What's it about?"

"I want to do an epidemiologic study. Of a town," Kate said in a rush. "It's got, like, this disease going on, and nobody's doing anything about it, and I kinda' thought that if I could prove—"

That, Charlie could get behind. "—if you could prove a significantly higher incidence of the disease than surrounding areas, you could give someone ammunition for starting a political movement to solve the problem." He grinned. "This could be fun. You've already partially identified your population."

"Partially? I was going to use the whole town."

"Partially," Charlie confirmed. "You need to figure out a strict definition for the statistical analysis: how big is your territory? Is it the confines of the town? How about someone who lives just over the town borders, in an unincorporated area, if that's applicable? Who are the members of the set? Are you going to include any other towns? Lots of things to work out. And then we come to your disease: what are the parameters? Does your disease affect men and women equally? How will you define if they have the disease or not? It's not that easy, not if you expect to do it right. Do you have someone with some medical knowledge helping you with that part?"

Kate's face was crumbling. "No."

"Okay, we've identified some of the initial barriers, then." Charlie pulled it back. For all of her intelligence, Kate was still young and this was heavy duty stuff. _Oh, like I'm so old? Or has exposure to Don and the NSA made me old before my time? That would be a laugh: a child prodigy, now older than everyone else._ "Do some research and come back to me…" Charlie pulled up his calendar in his head, "later today, after three. That work for you?"

The crumbling disappeared. Kate brightened. "Then you'll help me?"

Charlie grinned. "Of course."

He could hear her whoop for joy right outside the classroom. He could imagine the wheelies.

* * *

><p>David Sinclair put up a man's head shot onto the screen in the conference room of FBI headquarters. "George Remini," he identified the portrait from the California driver's license. "Fifty four, had been with SW Chemicals, Inc. for the past sixteen years, working his way up from sales to account manager to area manager and from there a leap to vice president. He's been in his current role for over four years. Seems to have been well-liked by his peers. Not so much by his underlings, but sales is a rough business. I got the feeling that every one of his people will be applying for his job. No lack of self-esteem by any one of them."<p>

"Enemies?" Walker asked.

"Still working on that piece," David confessed. "Everyone's still a bit shell-shocked. I can't get anyone to talk. It's the 'I can't believe this happened. George was such a nice guy' sort of thing."

"That'll change, once we put the screws to 'em," Colby predicted. "He'll be held responsible for two thousand years of war in the Middle East before the week is out."

Walker snickered. "My turn. The wife: a former Miss Tulsa or Chattanooga, or some such, married to George for the past thirty years. Still a looker, takes real good care of herself. Not too likely it's her; she gets more out him alive than dead. They got two kids, one in college and the other one doing some sort of fancy graduate work on the East Coast. The kids are flying in for the funeral."

"Any grudges there?" Don asked. "The kids, I mean?"

"Not so far as wifey says," Walker returned. "Not likely they did the deed, not from out of town. 'Course, we'll check 'em out when they get in."

"You do that," Don agreed. "How about SW Chemicals? Anything there?"

It was Colby's turn. "They've had a few protests in recent years, the 'killing Mother Earth' stuff, but nothing out of the ordinary. They've also had their share of lawsuits, cutting close deals, a few patent violations, that sort of thing."

"Anything that anyone would want to kill over?"

"Doesn't look like it, Don. Not that I can find, anyway."

"How about those protesters?" David asked. "Some of them can be pretty extreme."

"Good thought," Don approved. "Tell you what; you and Colby check 'em out, see if there's anything there."

Colby brightened; anything for a chance at field work and away from his desk. "You got it, Don." He grinned at David. "C'mon, bro. We got some _real_ work to do."

David rolled his eyes.

"What about you and me, Eppes?" Walker wanted to know. "How's about I give all the LAPD evidence to you, and me and my boys'll bow out of this case?"

"Not a chance, guy," Don told him. "LAPD's not getting out of its share of the work so easy. This is a _joint_ operation, not a dump job. Introduce me to the wife."

* * *

><p>Colby banged on the door. There was exactly one person inside the office, trudging back and forth between the file cabinet and the open box on the table, putting mounds of papers into the box. Another box, taped shut, sat on the floor. The desk in one corner of the room held a telephone, but the phone had an easy job. None of the lights were lit. No calls were either incoming or outgoing. Colby banged again.<p>

The person—a young woman, Colby thought, although he wasn't sure—yelled through the glass panel. "Go away! We're closed!"

Colby exchanged a look with David, and hauled out his badge. He held it up to the glass so that she could see it.

She wasn't impressed. "You bastards have won! Can't you leave us alone?"

David rapped smartly on the glass. _No, we're not going to go away_.

It wasn't the time to practice his lip-reading skills, Colby decided. It would only upset him.

With a sigh that would blow over the Statue of Liberty, the girl marched to the door and flung it open. "What do you want?"

It was a good thing that David led the interrogation, Colby decided. His partner was polite. Colby wouldn't have been.

"FBI. Agents Sinclair and Granger." David tucked his badge away, acting as if the girl had just invited them in for tea and crumpets. "We need to ask you a few questions."

"We've _been_ asking a few questions," she snapped back, "and all we get are lawsuits filed against us. What about Mother Earth? When does _she_ get to ask a few questions? When does _she_ get to file lawsuits with fancy pants lawyers?"

"This is the office for the Association for Mother Earth?" David asked, keeping his cool.

"It used to be, before you decided to run us out of town!"

"Could we see some ID?"

They established that her name was Susan Whitehold, that she was the second in command of the organization known as the Association for Mother Earth, and that the organization had run out of money for office rent, hence the packing of the boxes. A little more investigation revealed that there were some four volunteers who had previously worked alongside Susan (who worked part time for the Association for Mother Earth, but gave back her entire salary because the cause was so righteous. "Dude," Colby said later, "doesn't that make her a volunteer, too?" "Not in the eyes of the IRS, man," David replied.) but who had drifted away to some other, better-funded organization to Do Good. Susan was quite bitter about 'the traitorous bitches' as she'd dubbed them, which led David and Colby to believe that the erstwhile volunteers had all been female. That supposition was moderately well confirmed by the list of names that Susan handed over, and that list was the last thing that she handed over voluntarily. The rest of the documents were staying put.

"Hell, no. Get a warrant."

To his credit and Colby's amazement, David remained calm. "We can do that, Ms. Whitehold. If we do, then I can guarantee you that we'll be returning with an entire team of forensics specialists who likely won't be concerned with keeping things neat and tidy. They won't permit you to stand around and request that we not disturb the piles of papers that you've already packed away. They won't allow you to help us find what we're looking for, and then leave without troubling you any further. They'll be looking at everything, and requesting additional details on each file."

Ms. Whitehold looked at them both with an expression of extreme dislike, bordering on loathing. She came to a conclusion. "All right. Get it over with. But you'd better not mess up anything, you hear?"

"Certainly, Ms. Whitehold." Another point for David: no gloating. That would come later, Colby was sure—or maybe not. There were times when his partner could be outstandingly reasonable, and this appeared to be one of them.

David pushed on through the papers. "We have the names and addresses of the previous volunteers. How about the leader of this organization? What was his name again?"

_You know that she hasn't given that name to us yet, dude_.

"He bailed," Susan said. There was more than one emotion in her voice: unhappiness. Anger. Betrayal. All of the emotions negative.

David refused to respond to the overwhelming flood of emotion, while Colby used his partner's distractions to leaf through the other box of documents. "How long ago?"

"Two days. Didn't even have the balls to say good-bye."

"Tough. Sounds like he left you holding the bag." David pulled out a paper with a picture on it. "This him? Vince Zelakis?"

"Yeah. That's him. Bastard."

"We'd like to keep this photo, Ms. Whitehold, if we may."

"Go ahead," Susan told him bitterly. "I sure don't need it."

"Thank you." David paused just long enough. "Do you have any records of the association's activities? Did you participate in any rallies, that sort of thing?"

"Yeah. Some." The woman was getting tired of being angry. Her mood was melting into depression. "We ran a few, went to some others. Helped out where we could."

"Did you ever protest against a company by the name of SW Chemicals?" Carefully casual. Colby held his breath, trying to remain inconspicuous in the corner of the office.

Susan didn't have to think twice about that question. "Yeah. A bunch of times. They're the bastards that put us out of business. Put a restraining order on _us_, if you can believe that. They're killing the globe. All you have to do is visit some small towns where they dump their waste. Places like Bowtown, Chadford. Places that don't have anyone to speak up for them." The energy, the heat, was gone.

"Tell me about it." Not a muscle did David move, but he still seemed to radiate encouragement. _I may be The Man, but I still love Mother Earth_. _I'm on your side_. Colby was impressed with his partner's technique.

"Bastards buried their poison up on Red Wolf Mountain." Susan now oozed with eagerness to tell her story, to share her disappointment. "They contaminated the land. They thought they could get away with it, but they're not. The story's going to come out."

"But it hasn't, yet." More noise than anything else.

"No," Susan admitted, her face falling. "We went to the newspapers, to the TV stations, and nobody will touch it. They keep demanding proof, as if watching the ground go brown and barren isn't proof enough! Then the lawyers at SW Chemicals found out about us, and got their pet judge to write a restraining order against us. We can't even go up to Red Wolf Mountain to check on how bad it's getting!"

Colby made a mental note to check on that restraining order.

"Then they starting leaning on us," Susan said. "Gloria—she's one of the volunteers, or she used to be—she got audited by the IRS. She had to pay up like a thousand dollars or so. And Amy's husband made her quit because some inspectors started coming around his shop. He told her that one of the inspectors, one of the guys that's always been decent, told him that somebody pretty high up was making waves. That the inspectors were 'told' to inspect and make sure that they found stuff." She sniffed. "You want to investigate somebody, Mr. High and Mighty FBI Agent? You go investigate SW Chemicals, then you come back and tell me what you find." She leaned over toward David to make her point. "Or did they tell you to come out here and harass me, too?"

David shook his head. "Nobody tells me and my partner to go harass anybody, Ms. Whitehold."

The damage was done. What little trust had been there, was gone. Susan looked at him suspiciously. "Then why are you here?"

By now David was willing to give away that piece of information for free. "Someone just killed the vice president of marketing as he sat in the conference room in the SW Chemicals building."

"George Remini?"

"That's him. You know him?"

"Yeah, I know him, and I'm glad he's dead," Susan snarled. "I don't even care if it makes me a suspect. That bastard is one of the ones who ordered all the crap to be done."

Good cop, bad cop. David had done a nice job with good, and Colby didn't want to give any of that up. He took over. "Since you mention it, where were you at approximately ten o'clock this morning?"

"Me? Is that when my brand new hero did the deed?" Susan gestured at the boxes sitting on the floor. "Nine AM: box number one. Ten AM: box number two, and half way through number three."

"Any witnesses?"

"Considering that everyone else vanished when the Big Man came around, no." Susan leaned forward, deliberately letting her shirt hang open, daring the two FBI agents to call her on it. It was insolent, and made it clear as to what her feelings were—as if the previous discussion hadn't. "I guess you'll just have to take my word for it, Mr. FBI Agent."

They weren't going to get anything more here. Colby gave David a slight shake of his head: nothing in the papers.

They had enough to start with. This group would definitely be of interest to the case. Where had the organizational leader gone to? Two days could be a very long time, especially for someone setting up a sniper's nest. Somebody would very soon be running a computer search to find out a little more about one Vince Zelakis, and where he was at the moment.


	2. Seduction of a Federal Agent

Gary Walker had been right, Don decided. The newly created widow of George Remini still looked damn good at fifty plus years old and crying her eyes out. The hair had been cut by somebody expensive, and the strands all fell in the right places even though she probably hadn't brushed it since learning that someone had offed her husband. The mascara had smeared but it was a light colored one that tended to fade away pretty quickly, and Don was willing to put it down to poor lighting. Her body was one of those curvaceous types that made beauty pageant runways light up, even after a couple of decades and a couple of kids.

Lynn Remini, remarkably, kept her voice steady. "Have you found out who did it?"

No need to ask what 'it' was. "Not yet," Don said. He put away his shield. "Don Eppes, FBI. I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Remini, and I'm here to see that whoever did it won't get away with it. Right now, I need to ask you some questions."

"Anything." Mrs. Remini was shaking, but determined—and controlled. She would do her part and Don Eppes knew on the spot that this woman wasn't a suspect. There would be additional research to prove it, but if he came up with something significant he'd be turning in his badge for completely misreading a suspect.

Waiting wouldn't make the subject any easier. "Did your husband have any enemies?"

"George?" Mrs. Remini sniffed. "George was a major executive in a chemical industrial company. Of course he had enemies. But none who would want to kill him," she added, dabbing at a traitorous tear that leaked out.

"Can you name them?" Walker asked.

"Some. His administrative assistant could do a better job."

Don nodded. "We'll ask. How about social acquaintances, circles that you and he ran in outside of business?"

Lynn Remini shook her head. "George had very few acquaintances outside of business. He worked ten hour days, six days a week, and worked out in the gym in the basement on the seventh. We rarely saw him."

Don kept his face expressionless. "Doesn't sound like much of a life. For him, or for you."

Lynn agreed. "I'd been after him to cut back, and he did, for a while. Then it crept back in. I was getting ready to confront him. Again."

"How about your kids? Two, right?"

She laughed hollowly. "George stopped being a father a long time ago, Agent Eppes. Didn't help with homework growing up, didn't throw a ball with George, Jr., wasn't even there when the limousine picked up Annette for her senior prom." Another tear leaked out. "He wasn't much of a husband or father, but we still loved him. He tried; he just got distracted by his job." Lynn Remini sighed, all energy gone. "Please give us some closure with this, Agent Eppes."

* * *

><p>"Okay, what'cha got?" Charlie pulled Kate over to the small table in his office, the better to share the view of her computer screen.<p>

Kate pulled her computer bag around from where it was hanging off the back of her wheelchair, dumping it onto the table and sliding the laptop out. "Professor Eppes, this stuff is hard! It's not the math, but figuring out the parameters is crazy."

"Didn't I tell you?" he grinned. "Show me what you have so far."

Kate waited for the initial boot up process to finish and the computer screen to light up. "I decided to limit my parameters to people who actually live in the town of Chadford. I think there are a bunch more who are affected by this, but I had to set the limits in order to properly study the population. Good decision?"

"Absolutely," Charlie agreed. "You can always expand your study later, if it seems like the right thing to do, but first you need to limit your population. You can't go studying the entire world, not at this stage. What's your hypothesis?"

"What?" Kate looked confused.

"Your hypothesis," Charlie pushed. "When you're performing a study such as this, you're looking to either prove or disprove a statement. That's the concept behind research; that's how we test theories. What are you looking to prove?"

"That Chadford people are getting osteoporosis because of the chemical dump two miles outside of town," Kate replied promptly.

Charlie shook his head. "Too broad."

"What do you mean? It's happening; I just need to prove it."

"Exactly," Charlie said triumphantly. "You need to prove it. How are you going to do that?"

"I figured I'd maybe send out a survey. I've already talked to the mayor, and he's all for it…"

"Not good enough," Charlie told her. "Start from the beginning. How do you know that osteoporosis is a problem for Chadford? Maybe people have it because a certain percentage of people normally come down with it."

"But it is—" Kate stopped herself. "Scientific method. I can't prove that the chemical dump is responsible until I prove that there's a problem in Chadford, that more people are getting sick than usual. And I can't do that until I figure out how to determine whether or not people have osteoporosis."

"Right." Charlie loved this part, where he could practically see the light bulb flashing over his student's head. "You've decided on osteoporosis as the indicator of your study. How are you going to define osteoporosis?"

A determined look came over Kate. "That's the easy part. Osteoporosis is when calcium gets leached out of your bones. The bone gets brittle and breaks. Usually it happens to older women, especially those of Northern European or Asian descent."

It sounded as though Kate knew a lot about this particular illness. Charlie kept it clinical. "Okay, what percentage of the population gets it? What percentage of women get it?"

She saw where he was going. "I have to figure out what's normal, because if I don't know that, then I can't say for certain whether or not Chadford has more people with osteoporosis than normal."

"Right. Next question: what causes it?"

"Nothing. Some people get it, and some people don't. Part of it's in your genes, and the other part is stuff like what you eat, and if you exercise, and if you're menopausal—"

"Whoa, TMI," Charlie protested. "Too much information. You said that you wanted to prove a cause and effect from the chemical dump. How are you going to prove that the chemical dump did it?"

"It's the only thing—"

"Are you sure?" Charlie interrupted. "What about medicines? What about diseases that might cause it?"

"Infections don't cause…" Kate trailed off. "But some medicines can. I have to show that the osteoporosis wasn't caused by something else." She paused, lost in thought.

Charlie gave her several moments before his curiosity became too great. "You sound like you know a lot about osteoporosis."

Her good humor fled. "Yeah."

Charlie didn't need to push. The information was there, waiting to come out. "I take it osteoporosis is very close to you."

The lower lip tightened. "You might say that." It took another moment, but Kate finally summoned the courage to look up at him. "I'll bet you thought this wheelchair was from a car accident, maybe a diving accident, right?"

"The thought crossed my mind." Actually, it hadn't. Talking about numbers to this bright young student had pushed out every other subject. Not for the first time, Charlie wondered if he was missing some very basic pieces of the world. _What the hey; we're talking about numbers, here. I can think about the world later._

"It's not," Kate said.

Charlie allowed her another moment. "You have osteoporosis." It didn't take a genius to figure that one out. "I thought you said it affected older women. Northern European and Asian heritage."

"Yeah, well, there's a juvenile type, too." She laughed bitterly. "I've got it, and my sister did, too."

"Did?" That sounded ominous.

"She died. She broke her hip—again—and she got pneumonia. She never got better." Kate looked away. "She broke a few ribs, too. That's what gave her pneumonia. Her ribs just _broke_. They had no calcium in them, to keep them strong. They crumbled into little bits."

"I'm sorry." Charlie was. It was clear that the student sitting next to him was facing far more demons than worrying about her next exam.

Kate pulled herself together. "So you can see why this project is important to me." Her eyes dared Charlie to object.

He didn't. "All the more reason to do this right. If you don't," he warned, "your detractors will tell the world that you skewed the data because of your own illness. You're going to have to guard against that. It's one thing to do this as a school project; mistakes only result in a poor grade. If you're going to do this for real, for the world stage, you're going to be held to a higher standard." He paused. "So I'll ask you again: how will you define the disease of osteoporosis?"

Kate cocked her head. "I think I'll do some more research, find out what tests are around that doctors use. I know about a Dexa scan; maybe there are others…" She trailed off, lost in thought.

Charlie grinned. He knew that look; had worn it himself plenty of times. "Come on back tomorrow, when you have more stuff to talk over." He grinned again. "This is fun!"

* * *

><p>"I think the wife and kids are a dead end, Eppes," Walker said. He said it to the team leader, but it was aimed at the entire crew of them. "Them kids were away at school when it went down, and neither one of 'em knew how to use a rifle, let alone one with a fancy-ass sniper scope. Besides, Daddy was paying for school; no way they were gonna mess that up."<p>

"Same for the wife," Don agreed. "I was able to get into the family finances, and she was sitting on a pretty chunk of change. Probably why she never filed for divorce. They divorced a long time ago emotionally, but never made it legal."

Walker agreed. "She divorces him, her own finances take a tumble."

"Any funky stuff in their accounts?" Colby wanted to know. "Large sums of money changing hands? Insurance policies?"

Don shook his head. "Not a cent out of place. He's got policies, but nothing more than you'd expect for a guy like him. If the wife is dirty, she's hiding it well. What have you two come up with?"

"From the sound of it, better than you," David said. He flicked on the plasma screen in the conference room. "We checked out three different protest groups. The first two were busts, just kids pretending to be something more than they were."

"But the third—?" Don prompted.

David grinned without humor. "_Much_ more interesting. It's called the Association for Mother Earth, and it's in the process of disintegrating under pressure."

"Pressure?" Walker perked up his ears. "Pressure from whom?"

"Wouldn't we all like to know? Somebody very high up with some connections sent out the word to squeeze the volunteers; IRS audits, building inspections, that sort of thing. I verified that: it could be coincidence, but each volunteer got some government worker breathing down their necks. It's a coincidence I don't like."

Don gave a whistle. "So we've got a lead, and a direction. But does it lead back to Remini?"

David shook his head. "Good question, and I don't have a good answer. But I do have another question: where is the leader of this group? He disappeared two days ago, according to Susan Whitehold, second in command of the vanishing Association."

That struck a chord. "Two days ago? That would tie in with the timeline," Don mused. "Let's say this guy—what's his name?"

"Vince Zelakis."

"—this Vince Zelakis sets up his nest across the street. He waits until the moment is right and then bam! Exit one executive that Zelakis holds a grudge against."

"That would explain the old and new scratches on the windowsill," Colby agreed.

"Works for me, Eppes," Walker allowed. "You want I should put out an APB on the guy?"

"Yeah, you do that," Don agreed. "David, I want to know everything about this guy, where he lives, where he gets his money, how often he brushes his teeth, the works."

"On it, Don."

Colby leaned back in his seat, not at all dismayed at not being assigned the task of digging out the background on Zelakis. "You got something for me, Don?"

"Yeah. Let's you and me rattle this SW Chemical place and see what drops out."

* * *

><p>"I've figured some of this out," Kate announced to Charlie, even before she'd finishing rolling herself into his office. She coughed into her sleeve, and grabbed her notes. "I'm limiting my survey population to the population of Chadford, men and women over the age of twelve. I don't think there's any kids younger than twelve in town who have osteoporosis."<p>

Charlie agreed. "If there are, the numbers will likely be so small that it won't skew the data. Do you have norms? What the general population has?"

"Still working on those. I'm getting a whole bunch of different numbers from different studies."

"Do a search of the literature over the last three years, then see how close the numbers are to each other," Charlie advised. "Keep a record of your sources; you'll need those to back up your assumptions if you decide to publish."

"If?" Kate looked at the professor in astonishment. She coughed again. "What do you mean, if? I've _got_ to publish! How do I fix things if I don't make the world aware of stuff? They've got to pay for what they've done!"

Charlie leaned back in his seat, watching her indignation and hiding his amusement. Had he ever been like that? Only when someone wasn't understanding what the numbers were saying; never over a topic that directly affected the world. He supposed it was fairly similar, his numbers and her disease. She reminded Charlie of his father, protesting the war in Viet Nam. _Maybe I should have paid more attention to you, Dad…_ "What if the data doesn't support your hypothesis?"

"Huh?"

Charlie folded his arms. It was 'professor' time. "What if you can't prove you're right?"

"Of course I'm right!"

He was hitting close to a nerve; that was crystal clear. "What if the data doesn't back up what you're saying?"

Kate clenched her fists. "That just means that I've done something wrong, that I didn't use the right numbers. I'll try again."

"Ah, ah." Charlie wagged his finger at her. "That's poor math, and poor technique. You can't demand that the data support your hypothesis; you have to go where the data leads. That's science. The reverse is politics."

An angry wave of her hand pushed away that objection. "That's not going to be a problem. It's obvious that Chadford is the victim, here."

"Fine. Keep at it, then." Charlie wasn't going to get anywhere with that line of approach; at least, not yet. "Just keep your math pure, if you want to be taken seriously."

"I will." For all of her anger, Kate was equally as determined. To her credit, she added, "You _make_ me, Professor Eppes!"

* * *

><p>Colby Granger, Don reflected, could run down a fleeing suspect doing the hundred yard dash, could tackle a bull of a bodyguard, and still come up grinning. None of those attributes were needed here at SW Chemicals, but Colby demonstrated that he had more than sheer athleticism to bring to the job. He had <em>charm<em>.

He was using that charm right now, on three of the administrative assistants that sat outside of the corridor leading to the offices of the upper management types. One of those offices had belonged to George Remini, and the yellow tape was still sealing it off from the rest of the company, much to management's dismay.

Don and Colby were waiting for Jules Vorgen and Norman Hathaway to find a moment or two to meet with the investigative team from the FBI. Herr Dr. Vorgen, one of the assistants had let them know, was in a meeting with Mr. Hathaway and the vice presidents trying to figure out just exactly what damage control needed to happen in order to minimize the effect of yesterday's distressing event. Don had never heard of a murder being described as a 'distressing event'—in his experience, the violent death of a fellow human being rated more than a mere 'distressing'—but Don wasn't particularly unhappy. The information that Colby was gathering at the moment would be just as valuable as anything they'd obtain from Dr. Vorgen and Mr. Hathaway.

"Somebody else interviewed the guy's wife," Colby idly shared with the blonde looking up at him with a come-hither look in her eyes, making conversation. Colby neglected to tell any of the three that the man who'd interviewed Lynn Remini was standing right next to him. "Damn shame." Casually: "did you ever meet Mrs. Remini?"

"What, her?" The striking brunette demanded Colby's attention, sending out her own _take me to bed_ signals. "Honey, George didn't care two figs for that frigid bitch. He only stayed with her for the kids. _And_ because she'd take all of his money if he ever tried to leave her."

_Hah. Not the impression that I got from Mrs. Remini when we interviewed her_. _Wonder if she knew?_

Colby shifted his attention to the brunette. "He paying any extra attention to anyone in the office?"

"He'd flit from flower to flower, working his way up and down the floors," she told him dryly.

"Including you, Amy," the blonde put in.

She smirked. "Yeah. I dumped _him_."

"Right." Blondie didn't believe a word of it, and it was a conversation they'd had before.

"Just because he didn't go after _you_—"

"Don't mind them," the Twiggy-look-alike, the third of the trio advised Colby. "They're just jealous. George Remini had a new flame, somebody from the outside. A customer; at least, that was what everyone said. Frankly, I've never heard of the company she was with."

"What company was that?" Colby was so awesomely calm that Don wanted to clap his hands in appreciation of the performance.

"I think I've got her name and number right here." Twiggy-like let her fingers dance on the computer keyboard to pull up the contact information. "Here it is. Serena Stevens. The Montgomery Corporation. Never heard of them," she repeated, handing over the sheet of paper that she'd printed out. "Certainly not a company that we've done business with in the past."

"Thanks." Colby accepted the paper without appearing to look at the name, tucking it into the pocket inside his jacket, dismissing it without a further thought. "What's scuttlebutt saying about who did it?"

Blondie had the answer to that one. "It's someone in that protester group, the people who were picketing outside two weeks ago. It was one of them. They're crazy, all of them, you know."

"Yeah? Any one of 'em in particular?"

"Short dark hair," Brunette offered. "The woman, the one with the loud voice and the obnoxious sign. She tried to hit me when I walked through her little picket line."

_Oh, yeah? Why didn't you file charges?_

Colby nodded slowly. "Yeah, I've heard of her. Anybody else? Unhappy customer, maybe?"

Blondie looked around, and lowered her voice. "It wasn't a _customer!_" she hissed.

_Now we're getting somewhere. You're getting the good dirt, Colby_.

"Not a customer?" Colby carefully raised his eyebrows.

"I heard that we're sending things somewhere in the Middle East!" Blondie sat back in her chair, confident that this would be of concern.

Colby didn't disappoint her. "Which country?"

Blondie tried to think. "More than one," she offered coyly. "I think I saw Kuwait on one contract, maybe Yemen. Maybe you'd like to come back with a warrant, maybe search the place?" _Maybe search __me__, behind closed doors?_

Don stifled all expression, swallowing hard. _Uh, we've got friends in the Middle East. Not everyone is the enemy. And if we come back with a warrant, I'm leaving Colby behind and bringing a bevy of female officers._

The buzzer sounded, interrupting Colby's casual interrogation AKA a three way seduction of a Federal Agent. Brunette cast her come-hither gaze at Colby, beneath hooded eyes. "You can go in now," she purred, _and come right back_…

Norman Hathaway looked like the type of corporate director to have three administrative assistants giggling outside of his door. He was tall, taller than Colby, but with a narrow build and a trim waistline to match. Muscles, too, and worked out regularly; Don noted the ease with which the man reached to put down a file, toned muscles flexing underneath the high end Egyptian linen white shirt that he wore. He didn't get up to greet the two FBI agents; no, nothing like that. FBI agents were simply a necessary evil to get through, rather like a weekly obligatory phone call to one's demented and unlamented mother in an expensive private nursing home.

The other man in the room, Herr Dr. Jules Vorgen, was Hathaway's polar opposite. Where Hathaway was tall, Vorgen barely reached Don's shoulder and reminded the FBI agent of a short, stout fire hydrant. There was a similarity, however: both men were smarter than the average bear. Don was going to have to be careful with what he said and what he did, and what sorts of things were implied. Vorgen, too, had decided that the best way to deal with a couple of FBI agents was to ignore them and hope that they'd get the message. Vorgen rustled some papers hopefully.

Don could handle that. He'd been ignored by some of the best, and neither Norm Hathaway nor Jules Vorgen came close to the best. If Hathaway wasn't going to offer his hand, Don wasn't going to pout. He flashed his identification. "Eppes, FBI. Granger."

Vorgen narrowed his eyes.

"Are you making progress?" Hathaway wanted to know, much as if he were requesting a report from an underling on the verge of involuntary termination.

Don had a technique for that, too. "Yes," he replied, nothing so overt as insolence in his voice, and let the topic drop dead onto the thick pile carpet. He segued smoothly into his own interrogation. "We have some questions. What was Remini working on? Who did he have contact with in the last few weeks?"

Hathaway exchanged glances with Vorgen, and chose to answer the first question. "He was working on several projects."

"Name them." It was going to be one of those times, when everything had to be pulled out like rotting teeth.

Annoyed, Hathaway ticked them off on his fingers. "The Delaware Trust account. Piscatary Pharmaceuticals. Davis Pharmaceuticals, the one in England, not this country. TV Fine Chemicals, in Louisiana. They're working on the Gulf oil spill. Shall I go on?"

"Either that, or give me a written list."

"I'll instruct Amy to give you a list." _There. Will you please leave now?_

_Oh, I haven't even begun to be annoying._ "Any of them not going particularly well?"

"They're never going well, not until the contract is signed, and sometimes not even then."

"I'll need the files." Don kept his gaze level, daring Hathaway to make him say his next line, something in the nature of obtaining a warrant. Vorgen tightened his lips.

Hathaway didn't take the bait. "You may access them from Legal."

Like they needed his permission. Don didn't bother with that baited line. "Who didn't like Remini?"

"George was well-liked—"

"Well-liked enough for someone to kill him," Don interrupted. Enough with playing nice. "We'll be taking all of the files on Remini's desk, his contacts, his acquaintances. His computer."

Hathaway only pressed his lips into a line. Objections wouldn't work, not at this stage. Behind him, Don could see the wheels turning in Vorgen's head, and now he placed the man: Vorgen was Hathaway's corporate boss, from the parent company. _Not a good time to make a visit. Right, Herr Vorgen? Guess Hathaway's chances of climbing the next rung of the ladder are sliding away._

Don pushed. "What was your relationship with Remini, Mr. Hathaway?"

"I played racquetball with him every Monday and Thursday morning."

Why was Don not surprised? It would be nice if he and his team could take time out of their schedules to play racquetball twice weekly, and make Hathaway's salary into the bargain. "What about the rest of his colleagues? Anyone like him, dislike him?"

Hathaway used a cold, dead stare that he'd undoubtedly perfected over the bargaining table. "We all get along fine. We don't have to like each other to do that."

True. Don himself had worked with plenty of FBI agents with the proverbial bees up their—ahem. This did sound as though everything wasn't peaches and cream at SW Chemicals, and that would give Don and team an avenue to explore. Hathaway, however, was going to make this tough to look good in front of his boss, and Don wasn't in the mood to haul out any additional information. He'd drag his tail with Remini's papers and his office, not let Hathaway and SW Chemicals near them, until Hathaway was begging to give the FBI the data they needed. That would work, and be a better use of Don's time.

Don turned to the other player in the room. "How about you, Mr. Vorgen? Did you know Mr. Remini?"

Vorgen had been through this before. "Not well," he replied, with a bit of an accent.

Not German. Swedish? Maybe. Or Dutch. Don couldn't tell, and at the moment it really didn't matter.

Vorgen wasn't finished. "I spoke with Mr. Remini in the board room on a few occasions, as we were determining appropriate business strategies. I met him in person yesterday, for the first time."

"Any impressions?"

"A bright man. Knew his territory and his business. He will be missed."

That was all Don was going to get out of Herr Vorgen at the moment; pushing would only result in protestations of lack of acquaintanceship, and proving otherwise would be a waste of resources for the FBI. Don stood up and, as Hathaway had done at the beginning of the interview, declined to offer his hand. "That's all for now," he announced. "The FBI will be examining the evidence. Don't leave town; not you or any of the other people in the room at the time of the sniping."

"But—" Vorgen closed his lips. He took a deep breath. "That will not be possible, Agent Eppes."

_Hah. You really were listening when I introduced myself_. "Oh? Why not?" _And do you really think I'm giving you a choice?_

"My flight leaves tonight, for Dusseldorf."

"Change it," Don ordered curtly. _Like you don't change flights all the time? I'll bet you fly first class all the way._ "And you, Mr. Hathaway?"

"Mr. Hood, Ms. Stafford, and I are scheduled to attend a business conference in Las Vegas tomorrow."

_Translation: Stafford, also known as Blondie at the desk outside your door, is going with you to have fun at company expense. You're sending Hood to do the actual work. _Don put on his most sanctimonious air. "I should think, Mr. Hathaway, that the murder of one of your most valuable employees would warrant a little more concern on your part." He leaned forward. "Besides, what if the sniper decides that he isn't satisfied with just Remini? What if he comes after you?"

Flash of fear in those cold eyes; Hathaway hadn't considered that angle. He paled, and Don could practically see the deflation of the pumped up muscles underneath the man's starched and pressed shirt. "I'll…consider your request, Agent Eppes."

_That wasn't a request_. Don pushed the point home. "I'll have my people looking at Remini's papers shortly. Keep yourselves available for questions, gentlemen. That way we can both put this case to rest." _Then I won't have to put up with you, and you with me. Capish?_

Colby couldn't help but wink at Blondie and the others on the way out.


	3. Prove it

"The data's coming in," Kate announced, wheeling herself into Charlie's office.

"So fast?" Charlie looked up from the papers he was grading, putting them gratefully aside in order to focus on this much more fascinating problem. "How'd you get that to happen? You only just completed your survey questionnaire."

Kate smirked. She coughed, and grinned. "Computers. People think that we folks in Chadford are just stupid country hicks, but when you've got a lot of people who can't get out because of this—" and she indicated her wheelchair, "—you learn how to use alternate ways of accomplishing things. Even Granny Magness surfs with the kids. Chadford has its own website, and she's the web-mistress." Kate coughed again, faltering.

There was a story there, but Charlie wasn't sure that he needed to hear it.

Kate wasn't going to rehash old history, either. She was far too excited about her new territory. "We put the questionnaire up onto the web, and we're getting everybody to take it," she told Charlie. "That way we can collect data on everybody in town, and we'll have the data in electronic format to slide into some statistics. I talked to Evan—he's the mayor, Evan Pantini—and he's putting out the word. We've even got Doc Peggy to order testing on people who haven't bothered, just so that we can try to get more people diagnosed. There's a bunch of people who haven't done any testing, just 'cause it's so obvious. They just take their medicine and do the best they can. If they can afford their meds," she added darkly.

Charlie frowned. "I'm not sure about this, ordering all these tests. Are you padding the data? Getting more people involved, just to try to prove your point?"

"Nope." Kate blithely waved away that aspect. "Just getting better data from everyone that's involved. It's only a town of like six hundred people, Professor Eppes, up in the mountains. We've got some tourist stuff during the winter with the ski lodge a few miles away and we get some hikers during the summer, but that's about it. Most everybody not involved with tourism works at the mall and the factory down the mountain; that's where we get our money from." She coughed again.

Charlie cocked his head. "Are you coming down with a cold?"

Kate couldn't be bothered. "Nope. What do you think, Professor Eppes? Am I ready to start crunching the data?"

"Not yet," Charlie cautioned her. "Wait until you have it all in. Have you set a target date for the data collection?"

"It'll probably be completed, with everybody in town, within twenty four hours," she said.

Charlie raised his eyebrows.

"Like I said, Professor Eppes, we're _really_ motivated. It isn't just me; we _all_ think that the chemical company is to blame. They dumped their stuff in our back yard, and it's leaking, and we're getting sick because of it. We never had anything like this, not until they came with their tin cans of chemical waste. This is the first chance we've had to prove it. Every other time their lawyers just shout us down, or pay off some judge or something."

"Okay, now you're getting ahead of yourself," Charlie told her. "The town has a problem—yeah, you're likely correct there, although you haven't proven it."

"Yet."

"Yet." Charlie accepted the caveat. "But how do you know that the chemical company is the cause of the problem?"

"Of course it is!" Kate was indignant that Professor Eppes could think anything else. "They dumped their stuff there. We never had a problem before that."

"There are a lot more physics and chemistry involved in that part of your hypothesis," Charlie said, "not to mention some legal aspects, which is how the lawyers have been winning. How do you know the chemical company put their waste there? Maybe they hired a sub-contractor to do the job, and the sub-contractor didn't do the job right. You can't blame the chemical company for that; that blame is for the waste-hauler. How do you know that the chemicals have leaked out of their barrels? Maybe there was some other cause of the osteoporosis in town. Have you looked at that?"

Kate's good humor was rapidly disappearing. She scowled. "It was them."

Charlie nodded. "It may have been. I'm not arguing that point. I'm simply telling you that your hypothesis is far from proven, and that you may need more help than you realize to carry out your goal. Once you've proven your point, that your town has a significantly higher than average incidence of osteoporosis, then you'll move to the next step, things such as soil sampling and testing of the water supply. Your study, your data collection is just one aspect of the problem. Concentrate on that."

"Okay." To her credit, Kate wasn't going to argue with the process. It might grate, but she wasn't going to waste time whining. Clearly, Charlie decided, she had learned a long time ago that the world really didn't care whether or not things were fair. Was it when she'd ended up in the wheelchair? That seemed like a pretty effective way to figure out that there were things that you couldn't fight by complaining about them.

Kate wasn't finished. "I'm still going to plan ahead," she told him.

Charlie waved his hand. "Plan away. Just don't forget the basics."

"You'll help me?"

"Of course." As if there was any doubt in that. "What are you thinking of?"

"Well…" If Kate could have scuffed her toe, she would have. Her toes didn't cooperate. "I…" she trailed off.

"Yes?" Charlie prompted.

Kate gathered her courage. "You know some pretty important people, people with all kinds of knowledge, for checking if the chemical dump leaked, and who was in charge, and stuff like that. Can you help me with that? Getting in touch with the right people? Getting them to help?"

There. That wasn't so hard. "I can try," Charlie grinned. "Who are you thinking of?"

"Maybe Professor Tapping, in Environmental Science? Testing the soil stuff?"

"Done. I'll arrange an introduction, just as soon as it looks like your mathematical hypothesis is solid," Charlie promised. "Who else? People in soil chemistry? Maybe Jake Stafford, from the regional Environmental Protection Agency?"

"You know him?" Kate breathed. "He's like…We couldn't even get an appointment with him."

"Jake's a little busy these days," Charlie allowed, "but I can give him a call. He owes me a favor. Who else?"

"Um…" Kate tried to think. "Maybe somehow figuring out who at SW Chemicals was involved. They're the company responsible for the chemical drums. Their name is all over the fence keeping people out."

"Hm. That's a little more challenging," Charlie allowed. "I don't know if that's public record, or who I could call on to ask."

"Maybe…maybe your brother?"

Charlie offered up a small smile. Don's reputation was as widely known among Charlie's students and CalSci at large as Charlie's was among the L.A. branch of the FBI—not that he'd ever tell Don that. No, better to keep his big brother's ego exactly where it was. No telling what adult head-noogie equivalent Don would come up with, once he found that out. "Maybe. I can ask." Although Charlie would do a bit of checking himself. The name of Kate's nemesis chemical company sounded awfully familiar; maybe it had been in the news recently? Possibly, although that didn't sound right. _It's not as though I read the paper regularly. I don't keep up with world news, not unless it impacts the world of math._

* * *

><p>"I'm not liking this, Eppes," Walker growled, looking up at the tall building. "Something about this gives me the willies."<p>

Don understood thoroughly, because he was getting the same butterflies chewing a hole inside his gut with teeth worthy of a sabertooth tiger. _And here I thought that butterflies didn't have teeth…_

The building was one of those hotel-type places that catered to people who needed to stay in town for a month or two or longer. Half apartment dwelling, half motel, plenty of parking, plenty of amenities for people who wanted to work out, get a hair cut, and purchase high end liquor without ever leaving the building; all on the company's dime.

Staring at the sixteen or so floors wasn't going to get the job done. Don marched himself and Walker through the ever so plush front lobby, waited a disgracefully short time for the elevator—_why can't Federal buildings have elevators this fast? Must be nice to have money to spend on something to carve three seconds off of your work day_—and ascended to the fifteenth floor.

The corridor was equally as plush as the lobby and probably needed less upkeep, with fewer patrons trampling over the thickly carpeted floor. Fresh flowers in crystal vases; oops, no, they were high-end silk, good enough to look real from a distance and from close up until Don touched the leaves, unable to resist the question. The wallpaper had been recently redone, and Don could just bet that the annual budget had room for at least half the floors to receive makeovers from some up and coming area designer. _Me? The last time the hall outside my apartment got painted was sometime back in the Fifties…_

The doors to the various pseudo-apartments looked similar: freshly painted, with polite brass placards announcing the number but nothing so gauche as to indicate exactly who had taken up temporary residence. The entire line of doors were framed in some sort of politely light-appearing wood, all closed—

Except for number 1513. Where Serena Stevens was supposedly staying.

That door was open.

There were splinters around the knob. They were not pretty. They were not in keeping with the décor.

_Not good_. Don instinctively took out his handgun, knowing that Walker beside him had done the same thing. Exchanging a glance, both men moved forward, silent on the carpet, listening to the sounds coming from within.

_Thud!_ There was no mistaking the sound of fist hitting flesh, and the grunt—high-pitched and feminine—that followed verified what was happening inside.

No time to waste. Another glance at his temporary partner, and Don advanced. "Federal agents!" he yelled into the interior, ignoring the fact that Walker was local LAPD. That tidbit wasn't important at the moment. "Come out with your hands in the air!"

_That_ caused a flurry within. There was another squeal, also high-pitched, that suggested that the victim had just turned into a hostage. The barrage of feminine curses tended to bolster that idea.

"Back off!" someone yelled from a room down the hall of the apartment. "We'll kill her!"

Don made a couple of assumptions: one, that the 'her' they were referring to was Serena Stevens; two, that there was more than one miscreant; and three, that he and Walker had better hustle their butts if they didn't want to end up with a dead material witness on the Remini case. Okay, so that was more than a 'couple' but since his mathematically-inclined little brother wasn't around to complain…

"Okay!" he shouted back. "Let's keep it easy, here. No one's gotten killed—" _I hope_— "so let's keep it that way. Come out where we can see you. We'll talk."

Noise: there was shuffling from the back room. That was good; that meant that whoever it was in the back was accepting Don's offer. That further meant that the someone was a professional, someone who wasn't about to get killed over this. Don could work with that and, by the looks of him, Walker was equally willing to talk.

_Definitely_ professional. "We're coming out."

More perps than Don anticipated, and he swore under his breath. There were three of them, one holding a dark pistol to the woman's temple and the other two doing their best to use her as a shield. _Not her body that's shielding you, idiots; it's the fact that your buddy over there is likely to put a bullet through her brains_. Not good: he and Walker were out-gunned and out-numbered. Even if they each downed one perpetrator, there would still be a dead hostage and likely a dead cop or FBI agent. The odds were not on the side of the Righteous.

The one holding the woman, the big one with a handgun held to her head, took the lead. "We're getting out of here," he announced, as much to his friends as to Don and Walker. "And we're doing it in the next sixty seconds," he added warningly.

"Leave her behind, and we'll let you go without a shot." It was the best offer any of them were going to get—Don, included. If there was gunplay, someone was going to get killed, and it had a good chance of being Don himself.

The professionals knew it, knew that if they dawdled there would be more cops in the lobby of the building than they could handle. Their only chance of getting out unscathed was to exit immediately. That meant giving up their hostage, but it sounded as though they were willing to make the exchange. A hostage would only slow them down. A murder rap would put a serious crimp in their reputation.

_Works for me_. Don and Walker trailed the group out of the suite and into the corridor, guns trained on the gunmen, everyone pretending that the situation was under control.

Elevator or stairs? No doubt about it; the professionals chose the stairs. An elevator meant no control over where it would stop, how fast it would go, or who would be waiting when the door opened.

Quick movements: the lead gunman shoved the hostage into Walker's arms and the trio dodged into the stairwell, closing the door behind them. A scrape of noise said that something got wedged underneath the door handle, locking it in place.

"Get them!" the woman snarled, extricating herself from the LAPD cop's hold. "Dammit, get them!"

Like they needed the instructions. "I got the stairs!" Don yelled, shoving at the metal door. A clatter emerged, and the door suddenly opened. Whatever had been shoved under the door handle—a collapsible plastic chair, which had just collapsed—released the entranceway to Don's attack. He darted through, low, so that any of the three looking behind them wouldn't take it into their heads to try for a lucky shot. Wasted move; the trio were putting all of their efforts into achieving as much distance between the two sides as possible.

"I got the elevator, Eppes."

_You and your bum knees, old man_. Don slithered down the steps—and felt a presence behind him.

It was the hostage, looking far from terrified.

Don gritted his teeth. He did _not_ have time for heroes. "Lady—"

"That's _colonel_," she snapped back. "Get them!"

Okay, military—but still not too bright. "Stay behind me. You're not armed."

"I—" she checked herself verbally, and then physically, allowing Don to take the lead, but not without a muttered curse not quite under her breath.

Don could hear the trio of men scampering down the stairs, heard the bang of another door as they exited the stairwell. "That doesn't sound like the ground floor. Second?"

"Third," was the woman's thought.

"What's there?"

"Corridor roof top. Leads to the building next door."

"Right." Okay, this woman knew her business, had checked out the escape routes when she moved in. It had come in handy. Don dug out his cell with his free hand, using speed dial. "Walker. They're escaping across the third floor roof, north end." It had gone straight to voicemail, with Walker in the interior of a metal-surrounded elevator, but it was the best that Don could do. The alternative was to let Walker dance around the lobby, waiting for people not to show up.

His legs were getting tired, despite going down instead of up. Fifteen minus three still meant twelve flights of stairs. Don refused to let that slow him down and the woman—_colonel_—behind him had the same concept. There: third floor exit! Don banged out through the door, used the frame as a rebound to speed him along, just in time to see the last of the three jump across the narrow alleyway between buildings and disappear down the staircase that led through the building next door. Don dashed to the edge of the hotel building, hoping to see where they exited from next door.

Nothing.

The woman skidded to a stop beside them? "Where are they?" she snarled.

Like Don was any happier? "Gone."

* * *

><p>There it was: the reason why the name of SW Chemicals had sounded so familiar. It wasn't because the company had been in the news recently, because it hadn't. The head honchos there, Charlie recalled, preferred to keep themselves under the radar of the news media, preferred to let other companies make the headlines and soundbites of the national news shows. SW Chemicals was a good and upstanding company that provided purified chemical compounds and developed certain other compounds for sale to approved international companies for military and non-military applications. They even made a hefty profit by doing so, Charlie recalled his accountant telling him, which was why said accountant had been disappointed in Charlie when Charlie declined to receive stock options as part of his remuneration for doing work for SW Chemicals. Those stock options, the accountant had said, would have paid for a vacation home in the mountains for Charlie and a week in Cancun for the accountant and his family on the percentage that the accountant earned.<p>

Charlie hadn't had time for stock options, and proved it by electing to take his consulting fees in cash, paying his share to Uncle Sam over his accountant's wails.

All water under the bridge. No, the reason why SW Chemicals had sounded so familiar to Charlie was because he'd done some work for them several years ago, work that had resulted in a very lucrative and successful project for the military. The math had been fun, something about logistical planning that would bring the various components together when needed, and several generals had been around to congratulate Charlie on his contribution to the project. The generals seemed to think that many lives would be saved through this work, and Charlie had gone away happy and wealthier and stuck the research into his file cabinets to be forgotten.

Until now. Charlie, nudged by some half-remembered thought, had gone through his records and discovered why the name of the company was setting off bells in his memory. The work he'd done was still sound and, from what he could tell from a brief internet search, was still in production, but the names of the people he'd dealt with were complete unknowns. He grimaced; both his father and his brother would laugh. _You can remember numbers, Charlie,_ his father would say, _but people?_

Not the point, and Charlie didn't look forward to the next few minutes when Kate Tierney arrived.

There she was: he heard the elevator down the corridor outside his office creak to a halt. Heard her cough as she exited the elevator, heard the elevator _ping_ when the door closed behind her.

This wasn't going to be easy. Charlie roused himself in time to get the door for Kate, waiting as she rolled herself into his office, taking up the bulk of the middle of the rug. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was a triumphant grin on her face.

"I've got it, Professor Eppes!" she exclaimed. "I talked to Doc Peggy, back home, and she's putting me in touch with some of the experts in osteoporosis. She thinks that we may have something, that we can make SW Chemicals pay for the clean up. I know, I know," she rushed on, "we're jumping the gun, here. We can't talk about that until we prove everything, but Professor Eppes, it's so clear! We're really moving on this now!"

"Kate…"

"And Evan—he's the mayor of Chadford, Evan Pantini—he's got a friend in San Francisco who's a journalist, and he's going to get this guy to come down and chronicle the whole thing. That's going to be really important, Professor Eppes, because we already know that SW Chemicals is going to fight back."

"Kate…"

"They've done it before. They've stopped us every time we try to take them to court," Kate babbled on. She coughed, a moist and bubbling sound, coughed again. "This time, though, we've got them! We're doing this right, so they can't squirm out!"

"Kate…" This was getting worse and worse.

Kate finally paid attention to her mentor? "Professor Eppes?" She took note of the expression on his face. "What's wrong?"

There was no easy way to say it. "Kate, I can't help you."

She went white. "What do you mean, you can't help? Professor Eppes, we need you!"

Charlie could feel her shock. "Kate, I did some work for SW Chemicals," he tried to explain.

"You _worked_ for them?"

"It was a project, several years ago. It had nothing to do with what's happening right now."

"Then what's the problem? Why can't you help me, Professor Eppes?" It was almost a wail.

Deep breath. "Kate, it would taint your research," Charlie told her. "Anything published would have to include the disclaimer that I have received money from SW Chemicals."

"But you'd be working _with _me! _Against_ them!"

"No, I wouldn't," Charlie said firmly. "Remember what I said about going where the numbers led? I'd support your research, about proving what the _numbers_ proved, even if the numbers don't prove that SW Chemicals is behind this. Even if the numbers prove that there isn't a real problem in Chadford, that your home is just the unlucky end of the Bell curve."

"But there _is_ a problem!" Kate coughed wildly, trying to get herself under control, gasping for air.

"And the numbers will prove it," Charlie said patiently, "if it's there to be proven."

"But, you—"

"If I'm involved, that will throw the reliability of the data into question, and you can't afford that." On this point, Charlie was firm. "No matter what, this has the very great potential to turn into a media circus, and you need to anticipate a lot of scrutiny. Listen, I can talk to some of the other professors, see if they can help—"

"Professor Eppes, they don't have your reputation! They're going to get shot down by the lawyers just like we did!" Kate coughed, shoving a flash drive at him. "Professor Eppes, please! I've got the raw data, and I've plugged it into a spreadsheet. It's showing exactly what we thought it would show! Please, Professor Eppes! Please, just take a look!"

She had a point, Charlie had to acknowledge. Any professor at CalSci taking on this project would have to be able to stand up to media scrutiny, because for all of Charlie's fine words, that's where the battle would be waged. The professors who would have any interest in this sort of project were all adjunct or brand new to the twists of academia; the ones with any clout didn't have the expertise in the field of epidemiology to carry it off. Rock and a hard place, Charlie thought grimly.

Maybe there was another way. "Kate, what about taking this on as a graduate project?" he tried to suggest. "You'd have to wait until you graduate, but I'll contact some colleagues at good schools in Epidemiology, see about getting you in for your Ph.D.—"

"No!" Kate coughed wildly. "No, Professor Eppes, I have to do this now! We're _dying_, Professor Eppes, and they're _killing_ us!" She coughed again, couldn't seem to stop. She kept coughing, and coughing, turning red in the face.

"Kate?" Charlie rose from his seat. "Kate, are you all right?"

"Can't…stop…"

"Kate, let me get you some water." Charlie hastened for a cup of cold water, but it didn't help. The coughing went on and on, and Kate's face, which started out red, slowly turned white as she gasped for breath.

"Kate, this is worrying me," Charlie exclaimed. "I'm calling for help."

"No!" Kate could barely get the words out. "No! I have…to…do…this…!"

Moments later things were out of Charlie's hands. The emergency squad from Campus Security appeared, took one look, and immediately called for high-powered medical help.

The last thing that Kate did before they wheeled her out of Charlie's office on a stretcher, plastic mask delivering oxygen to her white face, was to push the flash drive containing the raw data into Charlie's hand. Talking was out of the question, but her eyes said the same thing: _please, Professor Eppes!_


	4. Conducting Business

"Lieutenant Colonel Serena Caruthers, Department of Defense." Col. Caruthers smoothed her brown hair back toward what looked to be a tidy bun, ignoring the wisps that would need more time with a brush and a few chemicals to re-achieve her persona of high-powered businesswoman.

Don had elected to interview the woman in the conference room on the floor of his office in FBI Headquarters; his cubicle wasn't large enough to contain all the players and their egos. Him, he just wanted answers but Walker sat smoldering in the chair two down from him, angry that the perpetrators had gotten away and willing to take it out on innocent bystanders.

Colonel Caruthers was just as angry and, from the looks of her, had more testosterone in her little pinky than either of the two men. There were _muscles_ under that silk blouse, and Don didn't really want to know how much she bench-pressed every morning. It would only depress him.

There were other things that he did want to know, and Lt. Walker beat him to it. "What were you doing in that apartment?"

The look that Colonel Caruthers bestowed upon the LAPD lieutenant would have punched a hole through metal. "Conducting business."

"Lady, you weren't conducting business," Walker shot back. "You were getting the crap beat out of you. Try again."

"Someone was proving that they were getting nervous," Caruthers snarled, her head held high.

"You had several meetings with a victim of murder," Don pointed out, trying to get the discussion back on track. She was, after all, working for the same employer, even though a different department. "What kind of business?"

"That's classified."

"Not from us, it's not," Walker growled. "Where were you from nine to eleven yesterday morning?"

"I hope you're not accusing me of—"

"Lady, that VP was done in by somebody using a high-powered scope, and I'll bet my hairy ass that you've done as much time on a firing range as Eppes here and me put together," Walker interrupted. "Convince me that you had nothing to do with this, and I'll let you go to finish conducting your business."

_Uh, whose investigation was this, anyway?_ Don declined to remind Walker that it was the _FBI_ that remained to be convinced of the colonel's innocence, not that it mattered. If Walker wasn't convinced, then Don wouldn't be, either. On the other hand, there was no need to be rude to the visitors. "How about we try for a little inter-departmental cooperation?" he suggested, allowing more than a hint of steel to enter his voice. The message was aimed at both of the others. "The FBI and the LAPD are interested in catching a murderer. What's the DOD's goal here?"

"That's classifi—" she started, then stopped herself. She sighed, coming to an unhappy decision. "George Remini's murder was a set-back. He was helping us."

_Finally!_ Don refused to react. "Helping you with what?"

It took a long moment before Colonel Caruthers could again persuade herself that talking to the FBI wasn't a breach of national security. Don allowed her that moment, keeping Walker under control with a brief gesture.

"We discovered that information about certain chemical processes was being leaked to foreign nationals," she said, dispiritedly settling back onto her chair. Don too deliberately relaxed, inviting her to continue. "We don't have much more information; only that the information has shown up in the hands of the Russian black market with extra-nationals bidding for it. I won't talk about the chemical process itself. It involves chemical warfare, and letting the process into the hands of outlaws and terrorists wouldn't be in anyone's best interests. To understand the process, you'd need an advanced degree in chemistry; that's not relevant to my investigation. What I need to do is to close that leak."

Don nodded. "You think that the leak is going through SW Chemicals." It was more of a question than a statement.

"Yes, but we're not sure how," Caruthers admitted. "The process is trickling out piece at a time; we've verified that through our agents in Russia and the Ukraine. We've also been able to tie the arrival of the individual pieces to the arrival of certain shipments of raw chemicals from SW Chemicals. Once, even twice, the timing could have been a coincidence. This, however, has happened at least four times, maybe more that we don't know about. The shipment arrives—to different end points in Russia and the Ukraine, mind you—and another data point is delivered. Interpol and the CIA are cooperating with us on this, trying to keep the process out of illegal hands." She frowned, the expression not aimed at anyone in the conference room. "It's clear evidence that SW Chemicals is involved in some fashion. It's my job to figure it out."

"And George Remini?" Don prodded.

She pursed her lips. "Remini was helping us, was trying to figure out how the information was slipping through our fingers. I was posing as a customer, so that he'd have the opportunity to meet with me and pass on whatever he'd found out."

"Which was—?" Don let the question hang politely in the air.

Caruthers looked away. "We were able to rule out the manufacturing department. They're too far removed from the shipping process to be able to slip anything in, although we looked. No, they're responsible for the creation of the chemical compounds that get shipped out, and that's all. George and I figured that it was someone either in shipping or marketing."

"Pretty big pool of suspects," Walker pointed out.

"You've got that right," Caruthers agreed bitterly. "If you know of a way to narrow it down, I'd like to hear it. In the meantime," she added, "I need to see George's office."

"Why?" Walker immediately wanted to know.

She was ready for this one. "George phoned me, said that he'd figured something out. He wanted to meet. That was easy to arrange; as a customer, I could monopolize all of George's time, if I wanted."

"You think he figured out who was doing it?"

Caruthers shook his head. "No. George wasn't excited—or nervous—enough for that. No, I think he figured out one small piece of the puzzle."

"Unless that piece was bigger than he thought," Walker pointed out. "He's dead."

"Yes, there's that," she agreed. "All the more reason why I need to see his things. He may have left a clue."

It was a better offer than any they had. Don agreed.

* * *

><p>David held a handkerchief to his nose and mouth and decided that it really didn't help that much.<p>

He'd seen dead bodies before, in various states of decay, and this one was at the stage where the odor was enough to drive away a turkey vulture. The eyes were missing; rats had devoured them long ago. There was a gaping hole in the belly where feral dogs had worried at the skin to get at the blood-rich organs beneath. The worst, though, was the bacteria, all the little one-celled organisms dedicated to returning the flesh back to the soil. David pitied the responding beat cop, called by some small business owner who couldn't stand the smell in his back alley any longer.

The cause of death, according to the medical examiner, was a blow to the back of the head. It had been the last of several, each one driving more crushed splinters of bone into the brain beneath until the trauma caused the brain to stop working altogether. Death hadn't been instantaneous, although loss of consciousness had. Death itself had occurred when the brain became unable to tell the lungs to inhale.

The single good thing about the whole sordid affair was that the fingerprints were still intact, which was what had dragged David here to the coroner's office where he'd really rather not be. One obligatory glance at the corpse, enough to satisfy his sense of duty to his report, and David beat a hasty exit, leaving behind a rotting corpse and a medical examiner doing his own best not to gag.

Next stop: evidence locker. David dutifully signed out all of the items that had been found in the man's pockets: a wallet with twenty and change, two credit cards—David copied down the numbers for later—several keys, and a pen.

It was the pen that caught David's eye, a mass-produced item that could have been done cheaply and wasn't. It was a giveaway writing utensil that was made to be distributed from one central location and then meander its way across the entire Los Angeles region, if not the country. It probably even dispensed ink with fluidity, though David had no intention of testing that theory. No, it was the logo on the pen that whetted his interest: a mass of curlicues that would evoke the image of a lion's mane, followed by the name of the Lyonsgate Hotel.

That was the same name as the hotel where the sniper had sat and calmly placed a bullet between George Remini's eyes.

So what was Vince Zelakis, erstwhile leader of the Association for Mother Earth, doing dead in an alley with a connection to the hotel where a sniper had done his work? David Sinclair had been present when many breaks in obscure cases had occurred, and he was willing to bet that this was one of them. He pulled out his cell. "Don? Vince Zelakis; I found him and you're not going to believe what he had in his pocket…"

* * *

><p>It wasn't as though Charlie could have done anything else. Really, Kate had pressed the flashdrive into his hand, right before they'd carted her off to the hospital, begging him to look at her work.<p>

He couldn't contribute to her project. He couldn't. It would contaminate the work, because Charlie himself had worked for SW Chemicals as a consultant. Well, actually, it had been the military footing the bill for his efforts, but the work had been done with the folks from SW Chemicals, and his name was all over the research and the contract, and that meant that any research produced for public consumption—especially something as politically hot as this was likely to be—would have to be done without Charlie's input. Disclosures of financial gain from SW Chemicals would have to occur, and that would cast doubt on Kate's work. It didn't matter that Charlie was now 'working against' SW Chemicals; there would be allegations that Dr. Charles Eppes harbored some ill-defined grudge against the company or persons associated with SW Chemical.

Charlie looked at the flashdrive. He'd stuck it into his pocket at the time, when they'd been working on Kate, trying to keep her breathing. It had been scary; Security had requested that Prof. Eppes remain behind and search for a relative to be notified immediately. He'd done that, spoken briefly to Kate's father to let him know what had happened and to which hospital Kate was headed. Charlie had no doubt that the man was already on the road, hadn't waited to even pack a bag for the very real possibility that making the three hour trip home to Chadford that night wasn't going to happen.

The flashdrive called to him. It begged him to insert the appropriate end into his laptop, open the various files, and review the evidence that Kate had collected. Charlie knew what would be there: a survey tool for the residents of Chadford to determine whether or not they had osteoporosis. It would likely contain downloads of articles covering osteoporosis: the incidence, the causes, the course of the disease, all carefully referenced. The worst would be the spreadsheet where Kate collated her data, watching the proof mount in front of her eyes, proving her worst fears. Yes, there it was: the numbers of cases well above anything that could be considered normal. The population of Chadford, the numbers proven by the most recent United States census, with the distribution of age and gender reassuringly normal. There was nothing there that could explain why Chadford had so many cases. The statistics that Kate had generated so far were simple and straightforward, and she'd used the built-in formulas in the spreadsheet to generate the standard deviations and the graphs, but the evidence was damning. Chadford was a hotbed of osteoporosis.

Charlie blinked. How had he actually looked at the data? He hadn't meant to, had expected to talk to Amita and Larry, to get some suggestions on who Kate might be able to tap. Somehow his hand had automatically inserted the flashdrive into his laptop. It wasn't something that he'd intended, but now that he was actually looking at it…

Maybe there was something that he could do. Charlie did still have some connections at SW Chemicals. They were a fine, upstanding company, dedicated to putting out a good product. It was why the Department of Defense had selected them to produce the compound that Charlie wasn't permitted to keep notes on in his own records. Charlie would just bet that if there was a problem in Chadford, SW Chemicals would want to know about it so they could go back and fix it. Maybe Kate didn't need all this, didn't need to publish. All she needed were the proper contacts, and Charlie could provide those. That wouldn't hurt. That would get the job done, and wouldn't embarrass anyone who didn't deserve it.

His computer pinged at him: time for class. Charlie sighed; he really did enjoy the Advanced Calculus, even though today's lecture wasn't going to be one of the most exhilarating of topics. He sighed again. They couldn't all be, and his job was to teach math, not decide which topics he wanted to teach. They were all important, even if not of the same level of entertainment. _You have some strange ideas of what constitutes 'fun', Dr. Eppes._

Charlie reluctantly put the flashdrive away in his drawer. It could wait; class could not. He'd start making some calls after class.

* * *

><p>This time Don left Colby behind. Watching the junior agent work the trio of man-hungry secretaries had been an education in itself, but Don was after other prey.<p>

Don was accompanied by Lt. Walker of the LAPD and Lt. Col. Caruthers of the DOD. He caught the flicker of surprise from each of the ladies behind the desks when he gave Caruthers her correct title; they had known her as 'Serena Stevens, client' and someone they were convinced had been intimately involved with the married George Remini.

_Yeah? Guess you didn't nail this one right. What surprises me is that I've got not two but three different departments working nicely together. Wonder how long it will last? Probably just until the good stuff gets unearthed_.

"We'll be looking through Mr. Remini's office," Don informed them, breezing by the three office workers, knowing that the interoffice phone calls were already zipping through the wires. The first message had likely gone out the moment Don and the others had walked in through the main lobby and presented their credentials at the security desk, and Don would have been surprised if Herr Dr. Jorgen wasn't trying to figure out just what he needed to hide on a moment's notice.

"I'll let Mr. Hathaway know that you're here," Brunette said primly, reaching for her handset.

Walker couldn't help himself. "Like he doesn't already know," he said to Caruthers in a meant-to-be-overheard whisper.

Don flashed Walker a remonstrating glance. There was no need to rub it in, and it wasn't as though SW Chemicals had been uncooperative. Sure, there had been an objection here and there, mostly centered around changing travel plans, but that was to be expected. It also suggested that no matter what, if there was illegal information being passed through SW Chemicals to parties unknown, the higher-ups weren't part of it. There was likely some skirting of the legal edge—Don didn't know of any company in existence that didn't try for that—but this wasn't part of the deal.

"Fine," he said to Brunette, including Blondie and 'Twiggy' in his response. "Just remind them to stay behind the yellow crime scene tape." He led the other two toward Remini's office, ducking under the yellow tape to enter and politely holding it up for the others.

Caruthers made a beeline for the desk, grabbing for the stray papers and perusing them. "Davis Pharmaceuticals. Grant. Chen. Northwest. Nothing here."

"I'm assuming those are accounts that Remini worked on?" Don asked.

"They are." Caruthers was distracted. "We even put in a few fake documents on the Montgomery Corporation, just to keep my cover intact." She looked further. "I can't find those. Where are they?"

Don checked his notes. "No record of our forensics people taking them. Are you sure they were here when the murder occurred?

"Reasonably." Caruthers continued to look. None of them were bothering with latex gloves; whatever fingerprints were present had already been catalogued by the crime lab specialists. "There's always the possibility that George moved them before he was killed. I saw him the evening before."

"What did he say?" Walker wanted to know.

"Not much," Caruthers admitted. "He was still focused on the shipping department, was going through some of the invoices."

"Likely made 'im look suspicious," Walker pointed out. "What was a marketing guy doing, looking at invoices? That's back end. Remini was front end, gettin' the customers."

If Remini had been looking at invoices, then Don wanted to look at them, too. He aimed for the sheaf of papers on one corner of Remini's desk, leafing through them. Every one of the invoices dealt with a shipment to a corner of the world that used to be behind the Iron Curtain when the socio-political border still existed. The stuff that was listed on the invoices meant little to him as well; his freshman chemistry class was more than a decade away, and he had been grateful to leave it behind. He could pronounce some of it—maybe. The items that had only a string of letters that indicated what elements were contained: not a chance.

Five invoices had three lines each highlighted with yellow and a sixth broke the mold by using pink instead of yellow; Don looked closer. The highlighting hadn't been done when the invoices had been printed; the shading was too irregular for that. No, the color had been added after the invoice had been printed. The question was: who had done it? Had the papers arrived to Remini in that condition, or had Remini himself added the markings to help himself figure out how the leak was going out? Why had Remini used pink on the sixth, instead of yellow?

"Eppes?" Walker moved in on him, trying to peer over his shoulder.

"This mean anything to you?" Don held out the invoices.

Walker barely took a look. "Eppes, I flunked high school chemistry; had to take it again in summer school and passed it by sucking up to the teacher. You think I'm gonna figure that out?"

Caruthers intercepted the invoices, scanning the material. "Pyroxidine sulfate. Methyl 3-hydroxy carbonate. These are not particularly noteworthy." She handed the invoices back to Don. "It's probably some of George's regular work. Keep looking."

Don pushed. "What about the highlighting?"

"George used to highlight whatever he was interested in. You'll find highlighting over some of his other things as well."

Don wasn't willing to give up, not quite yet. "What about these chemical names? Do they mean anything?"

"No."

Still didn't sound right. "You a chemist?"

"Undergraduate minor. It's part of why I got picked for this assignment." Caruthers kept looking through more of the papers on Remini's desk, ignoring Don's inquiries. "Your people looked through his computer?"

"Not too promising," Don said ruefully, allowing the discussion to migrate from the invoices. "SW Chemicals opened the password for us, no problem, and everything in there looks to be straightforward, even the high school paper that he ghost-wrote for one of his kids about eight years ago. We've still got someone sifting through, but I wouldn't pin any hopes on it."

Walker snorted. "Not such an upstanding guy; doing the work for his kid instead of letting the kid learn by struggling with it."

Caruthers took a quick glance. "More likely George had his laptop on vacation with him, and let his son borrow it to do some homework. Look at the grammar—clearly not George. He wrote extremely well; it was part of what made him so good at marketing." She looked up, scanned the edges of the room. "Wait a minute."

"What?" Don couldn't see anything out of place.

She moved to the far wall, and began to pace alongside it. "There's something missing."

"What's missing?" Walker wanted to know.

"If I knew that, I'd be—aha!" Caruthers stopped by the bookcase that was in one corner. There were many massive binders there with stacks of papers sticking out beyond the edges, and dust showed that most, if not all, hadn't been disturbed for months and possibly years. Even the housekeeping staff hadn't bothered with them.

It wasn't what was in the bookcase that Caruthers was after, it was what had been on top of it. "Here," she announced. "George kept a small statue right here. It's missing."

"Hole in the dust." Don confirmed Col. Caruthers's point. "A statue, you say?"

She nodded. "Some Greek thing, picked it up when he and his family vacationed there about ten years ago. It was fake, but George liked it. He was convinced that it was old. I thought it was old, too—made in the seventies," she sniffed. Caruthers screwed up her face, trying to remember what it looked like. "One of the Greek gods," she said finally. "I think. Hermes, maybe."

"So was it here after Remini was killed?" Don looked around, wishing vainly that the answer would miraculously leap out at him. "We can check out the pictures that Forensics took. They're back at the office. Anything else here?" He looked at the invoices on the desk once more, wondering if they were pertinent. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something to them, something that Remini was after.

Walker too scanned the office. "Nothin' leapin' out at me, Eppes. What's the possibility that the sniper missed?"

"What do you mean?" Caruthers sounded on edge.

"I mean, that was still a pretty nice piece of shootin' from across the street," Walker pointed out. "What if the sniper was aimin' for Hathaway, or that Jorgen fellow, and missed? Maybe we ought to be lookin' a little deeper at the rest of the fellows in that room, see if any of 'em had a reason to be afraid."

Not an unreasonable theory. Don nodded. "You start on that, then," he directed. "Keep me posted on what you find."

"Yeah? What's your share of the work, Eppes?"

Don reached for the invoices. "These things are still bugging me," he admitted. "I can't help but think that they have something to do with Remini's death."

"I already told you, they're worthless," Caruthers said, annoyed. "Move on."

"I will," Don replied, "when I'm convinced that I haven't overlooked anything. You?"

"I'm thinking that I need to track down the statue," Caruthers told them. "You check out the Forensics pictures, Agent Eppes, and make certain that it was here when George was killed."

High-handed of her, making demands of him on his case. Don chose to let it pass in the name of departmental cooperation. He could always take her down later, if he needed to.

Right now he had more important things to deal with, and two of them were rounding the corner and aiming for the office that they were in. Don held up his hand. "Hold it right there, gentlemen. This is a crime scene. Remain outside the yellow tape."

It was Hathaway and Jorgen. Hathaway already had his mouth open. "But, you're inside—"

"We're investigating," Don reminded him. "We can't have you disturbing the evidence."

"We need—"

"No, you don't," Caruthers broke in.

Jorgen drew himself up. "See here, my friends." His accent grew more pronounced, though his English was impeccable. "We have contracts with your government. We provide your military with chemicals that—"

"We know all about your contracts with the military," Caruthers interrupted, "which is why I'm here." She folded her arms. "If you want those contracts to continue, you'll cooperate."

Hathaway opened his mouth. "We need the information that's on George's computer. His due dates are coming up."

Don shrugged, trying to keep things nice. "Explain things to your customers. They can wait an extra day or two."

Jorgen perked up. "You will have this unfortunate incident resolved within two days?" He sounded as though he was addressing a trio of underlings who had had the misfortune to bring him a bad report. He was clearly angling for a commitment.

Don didn't give him one. "That would be nice," he agreed. "Most murders don't get wrapped so quickly. Or easily," he added. He picked up the invoices that had piqued his interest. "In the meantime, I need to look at these a bit more."

* * *

><p>His feet knew the way, and Charlie let them carry him up to Don's cubicle. There was no one there, so he ambled over to the conference room, correctly deducing that Don had too many players at the moment to be accommodated in the smaller square of space.<p>

Don looked up as he entered. No smile, and that told Charlie that the case was not going well. "Hey, Don. Guys."

"Charlie." Not completely horrible, this situation, because Don was still observing the courtesies instead of jumping down his throat. David and Colby were there, too, along with Lt. Walker of the LAPD, all three pouring over files on the table in front of them. His brother turned to the one person in the room that Charlie didn't know to make the introductions. "Col. Caruthers, this is my broth—"

"Professor Eppes. A pleasure." The woman extended her hand, and Charlie took it; the handshake was one of those that was slightly too firm. Also, the smile seemed a little too pat. Charlie was accustomed to that. He'd seen it often enough in his work with the NSA where Extremely Important People believed that they had to be pleasant in order to get the genius worker bee consultants to cooperate. For Charlie, not a big deal.

"Likewise. Don?" Charlie turned back to his brother. He'd been called here for a reason, and he wanted to get to it. There was plenty of other work on his desk.

Don took the hint. "We're investigating a murder, Charlie," he said, "and it may be linked to passing information out of the country. We think that these invoices may have something to do with it." He handed a half dozen papers over.

The numbers and letters leaped out at Charlie immediately, the highlighted lines in bold relief. He scanned each one quickly, then looked them over thoroughly, letting the sequences settle into his brain for comparison. "What kind of information?"

"Chemical processes."

"Hmm." Who had spoken? It didn't matter. Charlie was more interested in the figures on the paper. "Yes. Yes, I can see that."

"Charlie?"

Charlie looked up, wrenching his brain away from the papers. "There are some real possibilities here, Don, although I won't know for certain until I have the chance to run some algorithms."

"Special Agent Eppes," the woman said, "seems to think that there's a code in those invoices. _I'm_ not convinced."

Don spoke patiently. "Neither am I. But I have a hunch, and I'd like to check it out."

Charlie continued to scan the papers, noting the how the digits fell together, the patterns, the interspersed letters.

"Charlie?" It was Colby, unwilling to wait.

Charlie looked up, only now aware that all eyes were upon him. "I don't know. Maybe. Some of it looks pretty promising."

"You can see something that fast?"

Okay, that was definitely the military woman, Caruthers was her name. _Please, let this not be one of those situations where I have to convince yet another person of the value of a little applied mathematics._ Charlie didn't bother to look up at her. "It's too early to tell, and I suspect that there's a secondary key applied over the numbers that I see here, but I think there may be some simple substitution for atomic numbers going on in these lines that aren't part of the routing codes or product codes. In fact, these sequences don't appear to have any real purpose on the invoice. You can see here that we have the number six sprinkled throughout with a frequency that at first glance looks to be more than random, and six is the atomic number for carbon. If I assume that the chemical equation is organic, containing carbon atoms, then this may very well be one of the formulas that is being smuggled out via these invoices." Now he did look up, aiming for the colonel. "Of course, it would help if I knew exactly what I was looking for."

Col. Caruthers was alarmed. "Not a chance. This mustn't get out."

One corner of Don's mouth curled upward. "It seems a little late for that. This invoice is dated one week ago. This other one over here was last month."

Charlie refused to give in to the inclination to smile, a reflex developed over the years of dealing with government officials who seemed to inhabit a different reality than the rest of the world. "I'll eventually figure it out," he offered, hoping that it would put a better face on things. "Giving me the formula will just help the process to go faster. I'll be able to tell if there really is something here on these papers, although it seems pretty likely."

"Faster would be good," Walker sniped pointedly at Caruthers. "Unless you _like_ the thought that our deepest, darkest secrets are going out to the highest bidder?"

Caruthers growled. It sounded almost funny, coming from a higher-pitched set of female vocal cords, but there was no other term for it. She snatched up a piece of paper and jotted down an incomprehensible string of letters and numbers. Then she thrust it at Charlie. "Lose that, and you'll be answering to the Pentagon."

"No need." Charlie accepted the paper and looked intently at it, committing the sequence to memory. Then he handed the paper back to her. "Thank you."

"What?" Caruthers was confused. "But, you…"

"You can tear it up now," Charlie offered. Caruthers stared at him.

"It's numbers." His brother too was having a hard time keeping a smirk under control. Charlie never considered himself particularly clever at deciphering emotional states, but Don was almost radiating smugness. "Charlie will have that equation stuck in his brain for the next decade. Or longer." Now Don did allow a small smile to cross his face. "You can tear up that paper now. There's no need to put temptation out there where just anybody can get hold of it."

Okay, Don had had his fun, Charlie decided, and this scene of _let's show off the genius kid brother_ was getting old. Not only that, but he needed to get back to his office so that he could figure out a way to help Kate with her project without appearing to help. He started to gather up the invoices. Memorizing a single chemical equation was all well and good, but six sheets of numbers with pseudo-random strings of numbers demanded hard copy. "I'll need these, Don, so that I can do some cross comparisons…" he trailed off.

"Charlie?"

Another set of letters jumped out at him, a set located on the upper left hand corner of each page. "Don, these invoices are from SW Chemicals."

"That's right. Does that mean something to you?"

Charlie frowned. "I did a consulting project for them several years ago."

"Okay…" Don was not getting The Big Picture.

Charlie tried to explain. "Don, it's going to look pretty bad if I'm the one showing that SW Chemicals is involved in something illegal."

Caruthers disagreed. "Not so, Dr. Eppes. In fact, you'll be a hero, preventing valuable intelligence from being leaked to foreign interests. If anything, your familiarity with the SW Chemical infrastructure will help you to help us." She lifted her eyebrows. "If you're worried about this as a career move, we can keep your name out of the spotlight. A case this big, I suspect that any legal proceedings will be carried out quietly and under wraps. That's assuming that there really is anything on those invoices to find," she added, a fine sheen of sarcasm dusted over the words.

Somehow Charlie didn't think that SW Chemicals would see it that way. "They've always been pretty careful about security."

"Which is why they'll welcome your involvement," Caruthers pointed out. "You're already a known quantity to them. You helped them to successfully carry out contracts with the DOD in the past. They know that you're there to help them plug the leak. Why, I suspect they'll even be grateful to you. This may be some mid-level manager, in over his or her head," she pushed, "or, even more likely, they had nothing to do with it at all."

Don knew him better than anyone here in the room. "Let's do it this way, Charlie," he suggested. "See what jumps out at you on the invoices. You come up with anything, I'll just say that the FBI people figured it out. Not a lie; you're my consultant, which makes you FBI people. Deal?" He grinned. "Besides, don't try to tell me that you aren't itching to take apart that string of numbers. It's written all over you, Chuck."

"Well…" It was a reasonable way to proceed. Besides, Charlie would be working for the FBI on this one, not as a private citizen. His name would be a small footnote at the bottom of a report. "Okay."

"Good." Don pounced on the answer. No chance of going back now. He held out the copies of the invoices to his brother; color copies, with the numerical sequences highlighted in yellow and pink. "How long do you think it'll take? An hour? Two?"

Charlie sighed. There went his quiet afternoon, split between Kate's project and Cognitive Emergence. "Three, at least. Maybe more. I'll call you when I figure it out."


	5. Keep Your Cell Phone Handy

The Association for Mother Earth was closed and locked with a tacky _Shut Down By the Feds!_ sign taped to the door, but that didn't slow David and Colby. They had Susan Whitehold's home address, and that was the second place they were trying.

Her apartment was a dingy hole in the wall masquerading as a place to live; as she had said, Susan donated her money to the cause she believed in, and she had made sacrifices to do so. The only light that kept the pair of FBI agents from tripping over the ripped carpet in the hallway came from outside, and those photons struggled to enter through the filth-encrusted windows. One pane had a crack in it; David winced when a small insectoid flying thing crawled through.

"Good thing we're in L.A.," Colby commented dryly, observing the same bug. "Back in Idaho, she'd be freezing her patooties off in winter and the landlord'd be screeching about the heat leaking out through these windows."

David grunted in agreement, wondering if a quiet word in someone's ear over at Housing and Licensing would result in a few fines until the basic repair work got done. Okay, maybe he'd do that—after this case got put to bed. He'd been involved with too many situations where a well-meaning inspector got in the middle of things and stirred up a hornet's nest before the FBI was ready. "Number fifteen. This is her place."

He rapped on the door, hoping that his knuckles wouldn't splinter through the wood. The sound echoed in the hallway, and the kid next door was the first to stick her head out. She saw that the two FBI agents weren't standing in front of her place, and pulled her head back in.

Susan Whitehold was slower to respond. She cracked the door open to the width of the chain lock and recognized them. She looked tired. "What do you want?"

"The answers to a few questions." Colby was unimpressed with her lack of energy.

"I already told you what I know."

"Then this won't take very long, will it?" It wasn't really a question, and Colby wasn't taking no for an answer.

She sighed, and closed the door. For a moment, David was worried that it had all been an act, and that she was heading for the fire escape but then the door reopened. Susan allowed the two Federal agents to enter.

Her home was better than the corridor only in that it was tidy and clean. The furniture was worn, but the hole in the fabric had been inexpertly patched with needle and thread. The lampshade had been attacked with some cheap cleanser so that dust was afraid to approach the bleach stains left behind. The deep gouges in the wooden excuse for an end table had been scoured. There were no dishes left in the sink.

Colby moved ahead, having already established himself as the 'bad cop'. "Vince Zelakis. When did you last see him?"

"I already told you."

"Tell me again."

"You've got a bad memory."

"And I forget to write things down. Tell me again." Slightly aggressive, taking advantage of her weariness.

Susan gave in. "Two, maybe three days ago. It was at the Association Center."

"What were you doing?" David asked.

"Working. Planning."

"Planning what?"

"What else? Another rally. One that we couldn't get a permit for," she added bitterly. "You idiots don't even respect the First Amendment rights to free speech."

_If only the world was that simple_… "What was his mood like?"

"Huh?"

David patiently repeated the question. "Was he happy? Sad? Eager?"

"Pissed."

Well, that made sense, if they'd gotten turned down for a permit. David probed gently. "Pissed over what?"

"Just…pissed."

There was something more there. Both David and Colby caught it. Colby zeroed in like a Great White trolling for seals. "Be more specific."

"I don't know."

Blatant lie. Every sullen inch of Susan Whitehold shouted that out.

"Make a guess," Colby said. It was not a suggestion. "Have anything to do with the Lyonsgate Hotel?"

She blinked. "No."

That, at least, was honest. David could be fooled by an expert liar, but he didn't think that Susan qualified. However Vince Zelakis had received that pen, she didn't know.

He tried another tack. "Where was he going when he left the Center?"

"He didn't say."

Not getting anywhere. "You were trying for that permit. What other plans did you have?"

"Not much," she snarled. "We were running out of money, and bills were coming in. We were losing the Center. We argued. He ran out of there like the coward he is."

_Ooh, cracking_. David had nicked the shell with delicate questions, now it was time for the sharp knife to probe. David let Colby pull her attention. "What did you argue about?"

"Nothing. Lots of stuff. Nothing important."

"It was so unimportant that he ran out on you," Colby reminded her. "Once more, Ms. Whitehold: what did the two of you talk about? Details," he demanded.

"None of your business!"

"Yeah, it is," Colby told her grimly.

"It had nothing to do with the Center! It was personal! You give me a damn good reason to tell you, a reason that involves the Association, and maybe I'll think about telling—"

Colby went for the jugular. "He's dead. Vince Zelakis is lying on a slab in the County Morgue."

Susan stopped. She turned white, and one hand slipped to her belly. "What?"

Colby didn't let her recover. "You heard me. Your boyfriend got himself killed right after he left you, which makes you the prime suspect in his murder. Lady, you'd better start talking, and fast."

"I…" She swallowed hard. It wasn't an act; of that, David was certain.

"What were you arguing about?" Colby demanded. "Maybe a plot to kill George Remini?"

Susan made a gurgling sound and, hand to her mouth, fled.

Colby almost went after her, but David held him back. The woman wasn't headed for the fire escape. She went straight for the bathroom, and a split second later they heard retching. Flush, and more retching—Susan Whitehold was being thoroughly sick.

It clicked. It clicked, and Colby put it into words. "Crap. She's pregnant, with his kid."

"That's what they were arguing about," David agreed. He nodded to the closed bathroom door. "No way she knew he was dead. Not with a reaction like that."

Colby was more practical. "He was worth more to her alive than dead. It's tough to get child support from a corpse." He too looked at the door. "How soon do you want to drag her out of there?"

"Give her a minute, Colby. She just found out that the father of her unborn child is dead."

"Yeah, and we're supposed to find her murderer, David. We can't do that with her in there, and us out here."

David carefully avoided looking at the door again. "What are we supposed to do now? Get her a doctor? They didn't cover this at Quantico."

"I had a cousin who was pregnant. Used to throw up all the time. Her docs never worried about it much. Her kid turned out fine. Women do this when they've got buns in the oven." The frown on Colby's face belied his words.

Susan staggered out of the bathroom, her face white, hanging onto the doorframe. "Get out."

It wasn't an order that either FBI agent was going to obey. Colby took her gently by the arm. "You need to sit down. Can I get you anything? Water?"

"I…" Both agents could see it coming. The tears hit both eyes at the same time, first one spilling over than the other. Not a sound did she make, but the misery was plain to see.

Bit by bit the story emerged: how Susan had found the Association one afternoon, looking for a cause that she could support. How Zelakis was struggling to get it started. How she'd helped him start a formal organization, one that qualified for a non-profit status and to receive donations. The successes they'd had, starting with the project just north of Santa Barbara and then the media coverage of the chemical spill on the Pacific Coast Highway a few weeks later. Falling in love, and how Susan had first doubted that Vince felt the same way. Not now, though—well, maybe. Probably. He'd been angry that she was pregnant. Asked her to get an abortion. Stormed out when she refused.

David offered her a glass of water, and she accepted it. He searched for a way to phrase things delicately. "Did Vince…uh…stay the night routinely?"

"You mean, did he shack up with me?" Susan was not just bitter. She was drained. "No. He kept his own place. Didn't want to 'complicate' things." She uttered a short laugh, and it was not a pleasant sound. "You want to know how things really stood? How I made such a mess of my life? Here it is: I threw myself at that bastard, hoping that I'd found somebody to love. He took me, and used me. Then, when I told him I was pregnant, he walked out. That it was my fault, for not using birth control." Another bitter laugh. "We agreed that I wouldn't, that birth control pills cause cancer and all kinds of things to screw up Mother Nature. He was supposed to use condoms. A couple of times he didn't, and nothing happened. We thought we were okay."

_TMI_, David thought, carefully keeping a neutral expression on his face. _Too much information._

Susan wasn't finished. "I thought he'd at least be understanding, even if it did make things difficult. That he'd want a child of his own. But he just…he just…" Words failed her.

All except for one: "Bastard." More tears. "Stupid, stupid bastard."

David winced. He got the distinct feeling that Susan was including herself as well as the corpse in her description.

* * *

><p>He had never been particularly good at multi-tasking. He would get absorbed by one problem, and all else would fade into the background of life until someone—usually his father, Don, Larry, or some other person who had a stake in his life—came along to drag him away from whatever it was.<p>

Today was different. Charlie was well aware of his short-comings—this one, at least—and intended to take advantage of it.

He would spend exactly one hour delving into the invoice codes that Don had set out for him. From experience, he knew that was a highly efficient method of working the problem: inhale the information, then let his unconscious worry at it until the proper decoding key was apparent. The whole deciphering process would proceed much more swiftly if he did that.

In the meantime he could look at Kate's data. That shouldn't take nearly as long; after all, she'd only collected a day's worth of raw numbers. Charlie didn't care how excited her town was over this, there just wouldn't be enough entries in a spreadsheet to make the task difficult. Charlie fully expected to find a multitude of questionnaires waiting to be collated—

There it was. Yes, some six hundred or so questionnaires, but Kate had taken advantage of computers and the Internet. Had she gotten responses from every single citizen in Chadford? It certainly looked like it, and each response had neatly inserted itself into a spreadsheet for organization and easy interpretation. There were already correlations and graphs emerging, all of it damning. Kate had done good work. If this research didn't prove that there was a problem in Chadford, then Charlie didn't know numbers. The incidence of osteoporosis in the under-thirty set alone was ten times the national average, and no amount of wiggling was going to deny that. As Larry would say, _does the Earth wobble?_

Sure, there were a few small items here and there, pieces that Charlie could take exception to—but any half way competent researcher could also push back on those pieces, and Charlie intended to prep Kate thoroughly on how to do that. Kate was after publicity for her town and herself, but Charlie would see that the resulting paper received exposure in a scholarly journal.

What was the next step? That was clear: look for the source of the contamination. Kate wasn't going to be able to do that, not from a hospital bed, and her wheelchair too would get in the way. Not that she needed to do much looking; she'd already decided that it had come from chemical leaks from SW Chemical waste. That wasn't proper procedure. The proper way to investigate was to identify the problem—done—and _then_ go looking for the source.

Okay, Charlie could do that for her. Right, he had worked for SW Chemicals as a consultant and couldn't really go hunting, not without damaging the credibility of Kate's work, but there was nothing to stop him from looking around and then reporting what he'd found to someone else, was there? He had a legitimate excuse for doing this. It was FBI business: Charlie was looking for clues to the invoice-cipher that Don had given him and would it be his fault if he 'stumbled' across information that pertained to her research? Then the other person, whoever took on Kate to be her mentor, perhaps, could retrace Charlie's steps and re-examine the evidence. Yes, that would work. Charlie's name would stay out of it, and Kate and her new mentor would be able to publish in both the academic literature and in the popular media. The problem would be solved. SW Chemicals—assuming that Charlie and everyone else really did find that they were the cause of the problem—would be forced to clean up. They'd probably even be grateful to Kate for bringing the issue to light, so that they could police any sub-contractor that was doing a sub-standard job and ruining SW Chemicals' good name.

Timing: if Charlie could persuade someone to cover his upper level class tomorrow morning, he could head up to Chadford later this afternoon, spend the night, and do some investigating in the morning. His schedule was fairly light this semester; someone else had volunteered to teach some of the massive freshman classes that were fun but time-consuming, and the quantity of graduate students who tended to police themselves was up. His father was out of town visiting an old friend with a new set of golf clubs, and wouldn't be around to complain of disrupted dinner plans.

One task completed. Charlie turned his attention back to the copies of the SW Chemicals invoices that Don had given him, scanning the highlighted numbers. Now, with a fresh look, the sequences were blindingly obvious. All Charlie needed to do was apply the proper decoding parameters. Could this be a simple cipher substitution? Not a chance; if it was that easy, the DOD would have already solved it before finishing their morning cup of coffee. That lady colonel would have fax'd it back to Washington before Don could snatch it out of her hands and had her answer as soon as she opened her email.

Charlie settled in for some heavy duty thinking. Double substitution key? Possible, but not likely. It was a deceptively simple-looking set of numbers, with nothing to indicate why the murder victim had singled it out. Rosewood Asymptotes? More likely, and it would be a technique he intended to try, along with that little side proof that he'd been wanting to explore ever since it occurred to him back in the old days when he was working for the NSA. He grinned; there were two or three other approaches that he could use and fortunately he had access to several computers. _More than one way to multi-task_, he smirked to himself. Three computers in his office—_I knew I didn't want to get rid of that old one_—meant three approaches at the same time.

Charlie settled down for a long and enjoyable afternoon.

* * *

><p>"Norman Hathaway," Don lectured, perched on the table in the conference room. The photo on the screen came from the Department of Motor Vehicles, a singularly unflattering view of the man that Don had met at SW Chemicals. "Harvard MBA, rapid rise through the ranks. Married, three kids, two ex-wives, and a bunch of grandkids."<p>

"How many girlfriends?" Walker wanted to know.

Don mock-glared. "I'll give you the task of finding out, if anything turns up on Mr. Hathaway."

"Just jokin', Eppes. How 'bout the other guy?"

The smaller, dark-haired man that they'd met replaced the head shot of Hathaway, David taking his hands away from the keyboard once the task was done. Colonel Caruthers had the data on this one. "Jules Vorgen is a Dutch national, currently living in Switzerland. Went to school in England; studied chemistry. Joined SW Chemicals' parent company some ten years ago as a researcher and rose through the ranks to where he is today. Single, but in a relationship with a model. They're both reportedly very happy, both travelling on business and seeing each other when they're in town."

"Works for some people," Colby observed dryly. "Personally, I'd like a little bit more out of my girlfriends than a date every other month."

The look that Caruthers gave him was unreadable. "If Jorgen is dirty, then nobody knows about it. Remini didn't suspect him."

"Who did Remini suspect?" Don wanted to know.

"That was just the thing." Caruthers stared at the head shot of Jorgen on the screen. "He didn't suspect anyone. He hadn't a clue who was doing it." She indicated the invoices on the desk, each one protected by a plastic bag and tagged as evidence. "He hadn't made any progress on how the information was getting out until that. And we still haven't established that the invoices are a clue. Not until your brother either confirms or denies your theory, Agent Eppes."

"Something got 'im killed," Walker drawled. "I'd consider that a clue."

Another unreadable look from Caruthers. "You think you can do something about that, Lt. Walker? Be my guest." Bitterly.

Don studied the two faces on the screen and, after a moment's thought, added a third. This headshot came courtesy of the morgue. "How does Vince Zelakis fit into all of this?"

"Don?" That was David.

"I mean, look at the scenario: we have one Vince Zelakis, an eco-activist, dead in a back alley with a smashed-in skull. We also have Mr. Zelakis with a tie-in to the Lyonsgate Hotel across the street from SW Chemicals headquarters."

Walker spoke. "You're thinkin' that maybe this Zelakis fellow was the one to pull the trigger?"

"I'm thinking that maybe we'd better find out if Zelakis knew which end of a rifle to stick the bullets into," Don retorted.

Colby hauled himself to his feet. "That's my cue. David, you with me?"

"Unless Don has something else planned." David too hoisted himself upward.

Don waved a leisurely hand. "Go forth."

Walker waited until the pair had left before speaking once more. "I suppose you got some other ideas to pursue? I'm really hopin' that you do, Eppes, 'cause I'm fresh out."

"Actually, lieutenant, I do." Don pointed to the photo of Hathaway on the screen. "You said it yourself: how many girlfriends? From what Colby got from the secretaries, SW Chemicals wasn't exactly the more prim and proper company around. They seemed to think that Remini was chasing more than a few skirts, and it wouldn't surprise me if they had the same thoughts about some of the other vice presidents and CEOs. Hathaway is married, with two ex-wives? He's probably putting out a hefty amount in alimony. Find out just how much, Walker, and if he needs money. Colonel Caruthers," and Don then turned to the remaining person, "I'll ask you to explore Jorgen's background. The FBI and LAPD are limited as to how much information we can get from international sources, and I'm suspecting the DOD can do a bit better."

"I can do that." Caruthers's eyes were cold. "You think that one of them is involved in espionage?"

Don avoided a direct answer. "I think we'd all feel better being able to rule out that possibility."

"What's your part of this, Eppes?" Walker wanted to know. "You got someone you like for the killer?"

"Nope." There was no smile on Don's face. "I'm hoping that a trip to our friendly neighborhood mathematician will get us some forward momentum."

* * *

><p>Don's feet knew the way to Charlie's office, and he let them operate on auto-pilot. There was plenty for his brain to work on with this case, and an unprecedented amount of cooperation from the various governmental departments, all of which suggested that several well-paid government employees would be pushing hard for one Special Agent Don Eppes to put a 'closed' stamp onto the file folder as quickly as possible.<p>

What his brother was working on was only one part of the puzzle. It was an important piece, granted, but the fact that confidential information was leaking to the overseas Black Market was putting all of Washington into a tizzy and the Assistant Area Coordinator had already let Don know that unless something significant turned up soon, there would be a major case team flying out from DC to muck things up.

Good. Let 'em. Don and team were working as fast as they could, and if someone else thought that they could work any harder or faster they were welcome to try. It wasn't as though Don or anyone else in America could take Hathaway or Jorgen into a back room with a Chinese water torture or thumb screws, and that was assuming that one of the pair knew something. Don hadn't found anything yet that would lead him in that direction.

Don was putting his money on whatever Colby and David turned up on Zelakis. The man was already a fringe element—or had been, until his untimely demise. Now he was merely suspect in all of his actions. Normal people tended not to end up dead in a back alley with rats chewing a hole in their bellies. Following that trail of clues was their best bet for cracking this case.

Another big lead would be whatever Charlie discovered. What was hidden in those numbers and letters on those invoices? Who put them there? Colonel Caruthers didn't think that there was anything, that the numbers were a normal part of the SW Chemicals invoice. She had a point: anyone looking at those invoices wouldn't have noticed anything out of place. Even the highlighting could have been done for perfectly innocent reasons. But Don had a hunch, and had put Charlie onto the task of proving him right—or wrong.

He walked in through the door to Charlie's office. His brother was clearly 'in the zone', headphones covering his ears, jotting down numbers and equations on his whiteboard faster than Don thought possible. Erase this one, now create a new phrase. Make a negative into a positive. Circle the answer, or part of it. Was he working on the invoices? Don really hoped so. Early on in Charlie's consulting work he had had a tendency to butterfly off after whatever took his interest. These days his kid brother was more reliable—but not by much.

"Charlie?" Don hoped to be noticed.

The writing continued.

"Charlie!" A little bit louder.

Not loud enough. Three more phrases vanished, wiped into oblivion on Charlie's sleeve, and two more took their place.

Why was Don not surprised? He'd only seen this sort of thing from his brother fifty million times while growing up. A bomb could go off next to the kid—uh, _man_—and he'd never realize it until his numbers were smudged from the blast.

"Hey, Charlie!" This time accompanied by a tap on the shoulder.

That got through. A scowl, as whatever number was there vanished from Charlie's brain, followed by a grin of greeting and a pulling off of the headset as Charlie realized who was standing in front of him. "Oh, hey, Don. Been here long?"

"About three minutes," Don replied, letting Charlie himself work out if that was indeed a long time. "You got anything for me?"

"Well, I'm not finished, but—"

"What do you have so far?" Don interrupted. "We're floundering here, buddy. Are those invoices involved? Those numerical sequences: are they code, yes or no?"

"Short answer: yes," Charlie replied, perching back against his desk. A small stack of papers toppled over. Since they remained on top of the desk, Charlie ignored them. "Actually, the cipher used was rather pretty, something involving the Fibonacci sequence along with a few more techniques that haven't been described in the literature. I may get a paper out of this," he mused, "assuming that the DOD will permit it."

Publications were important in Charlie's world, but the only written work that Don wanted to see was this case report with a 'closed' stamp on it. "Keep going, Chuck," he pushed, biting his tongue on words better left unsaid. There were times for cutting his brother off, and this was not one of them.

Never one to turn down an invitation to lecture, Charlie launched into his project. "Understand, this is not complete," he told Don. "I still have three approaches yet untested, but I think that I have the gist of it. Whoever designed this cipher took the double key approach, and that means that there is another avenue of communication between the sender and the receiver. These number trails on the invoices are pieces of the actual chemical formula that your DOD friend—Colonel Caruthers, is it?"

"That's her. Keep going."

"Any way, when I did an initial exploration, it looks as though whoever is doing the sending is breaking down the formula into short chunks, encoding the chunk, sending it out, and then—I assume—sends out the decoding part via another route." Charlie gestured at one of the pair of laptops on his desk that were humming frantically to themselves, trying to solve the problem that Charlie had set them. "I'm still working on what that piece ought to look like, and I'll have it in a day or so. I'm assuming that you'll want it?"

"Yeah. That would be nice." _I really want the bozo doing the sending. Hopefully your lucky decoder ring will lead me to them_. "What about the other computer?"

Now Charlie grinned. "I have just proved that information is being passed via numerical sequences on invoices. What would it be worth to you to know the next sequence that will be going out?"

"You mean, so that we could look for the invoice before it leaves the factory?" Don breathed. "Chuck, you can do that?"

Charlie indicated the second laptop, working just as hard as the first. "I can. It too should be ready in about twenty four hours. Late tomorrow afternoon, I think."

A sense of calm settled over Don. This case had just taken a big step forward. His consultant had not only identified the route that the perpetrator was using to smuggle out the information but was well on his way to figuring out the next chunk of code to look for. Once they identified who was sending the code, Don figured, they'd be able to trace him back to the sniper who had killed George Remini. "That's good, buddy." He grinned. "In the meantime, I think I'll see if I can make some people nervous. I think I'll take Walker down to the factory to look at a few more invoices; he's good at making people nervous. Maybe if they get nervous enough, someone will crack. Tomorrow, you say?"

"Late tomorrow," Charlie clarified. "Listen, Don, I'm going to out of town overnight but I'll be back in the afternoon, right when the answers will be available. Don't get worried if you can't reach me here."

"Where are you going?" Don asked quickly. "Does it have anything to do with—"

"Nope," Charlie broke in. "Nothing at all. A student of mine is doing some research, an investigation into a possible chemical contamination in her town. Well, it sort of has to do with SW Chemicals; they're the ones with the chemicals being stored in a dump outside of town, according to my student. They're probably secondary, though. They probably hired some company to do the hauling away, and it's the hauling company that may be at fault, if the numbers prove her right."

Don still frowned. "Don't you have to be around for the computer?"

"Nope," Charlie told him cheerily. "That's the neat thing about computers: they do what we tell 'em to do. Well, there was this rogue computer named 'Hal', but that was more of an aberration…"

"Okay, I get it." Don backed off. "Sarcastic point taken, Chuck. But this is national security-type big, Charlie. We can't afford to be any slower with this than we have to. There's no way to speed things up?"

Charlie sobered. "If there was, I'd be doing it. I understand how important this is. The only way to make these things run faster," and he gestured at the whirring laptops, "would be to turn them into Cray computers, and I'd still end up re-inputting all the macros and data points." He shrugged. "I'll have answer for you late tomorrow."

"Okay. Keep your cell phone handy," Don instructed. "If this thing breaks, we may need to get whatever you have fast."


	6. Everybody's Guilty of Something

Author's note: Major hanky alert. Read on at your own risk.

* * *

><p>Colby showed a picture of the late Vince Zelakis to the Lyonsgate hotel manager. It was one of the pictures that he'd scrounged from the files of the Mother Earth Association; the head shots from the morgue, even cleaned up, still would look pretty gruesome to anyone not accustomed to the sight of death. There was a time and place for gruesome, and this was not it.<p>

The manager, a young woman who looked like she'd come to Hollywood to make her fame and fortune and ended up settling for something a lot less, looked at the photo. "I wish I could say yes, but the fact is, I don't really see much of the clientele. They come, they go, they don't stay much in between. This is a place to sleep, not to live."

David was patient. "How about conference rooms? Any possibility that he or someone staying here arranged for a meeting?"

She was doubtful. "We can look, but we've been pretty light the last year or so. The economy, you know. People have been using the 'net for video-conferencing, instead." She gestured to the small computer on her desk. "My bosses even use it here. They're a big corporation back East, and we tele-conference every two weeks to give a status report. They don't come out here unless some big shot's family wants to visit Hollywood."

"How about the staff?" David asked. "Are they more likely to notice the guests?"

"Maybe." She thought. "Maybe the help at the front desk? Maria is on now; she's the day shift. Evenings doesn't get here until four."

"Not just the front desk," Colby chimed in. "The cleaning staff, too." He took back the photo from the manager. "How about I talk to the cleaning people, and you take the front desk, David? We'll cover both angles, and see what pops."

"Okay," David nodded. "Sounds good to me…" His voice drifted off, and he stared at the front lobby.

"David?"

The front lobby wasn't large as hotel lobbies went. It was elegantly appointed, with a genteel pedestal in the center masquerading as a table with a six foot high bouquet of flowers, and Colby was willing to bet good money that the flowers—most of 'em, anyway—were fake. Maybe a few real ones were tucked in on a daily basis to keep up the pretense of high end furnishings, but the longer stems of magnolias couldn't possibly last more than half a day without wilting. Not that it mattered; the display made people go 'ooh, ahhh' and then move on to the more important task of checking in with a credit card on file to pay the bills. The floor was covered in an expensive and durable grade of marble tiling, in an off-pink shade that was just right to set off the beige walls.

The marble tiling wasn't where David's attention was focused. Colby's partner was looking at the area in front of the half-hidden bar and lounge where patrons could wait for their appointments and pick-ups in relative ease and comfort. That area was covered with a high grade of plush carpeting, in a complementary shade of pink. The plush looked relatively unworn, leading Colby to believe that not only was the carpeting new but replaced on a frequent basis in order to maintain the atmosphere of 'expensive'.

"David?" Colby pushed again. "You see something?"

"Yeah. Look at the lounge. What do you see?"

"I see a bunch of suits with scotch on the rocks. What am I supposed to see?"

"No, I mean, look at the ramp leading up to the lounge."

Colby peered at what David had pointed out. In accordance with proper planning for those unable to negotiate a small set of stairs, a ramp had been placed between the lobby foyer and the lounge. Today it had been used: Colby could see at least two men in suits in wheelchairs, and he thought that there might be a third sitting behind the table that he couldn't see clearly.

Then it hit him: the tracks that had been left in the carpeting by the wheelchairs. David pulled out his cell phone with pictures of the room upstairs where the sniper had had his nest: the tracks on the picture looked identical with the tracks that were bent into the carpet in front of them. "You think…?"

"Don't wheelchairs come in different widths?"

"Yes, but I like this scenario a lot better than the maid vacuuming the carpet in exactly parallel lines. Don't you?"

"Yeah." Colby turned to the manager. "You got a tape measure around here?"

"I think I keep one in my desk drawer." The manager was not best pleased. "Are you trying to tell me that one of my guests is your sniper?"

"Ma'am, we just follow where the clues lead," David told her primly.

They measured the width of the tracks on the ramp carpet, all the while keeping an eye on the trio in wheelchairs in the lounge. As soon as the two FBI agents bent to examine the tracks, they became aware of the three watching them and putting their heads together to whisper.

"Only way out for them is this ramp," Colby said under his breath to David. "I don't think that hot pursuit is gonna be a challenge for us."

David had a better thought. He turned to the manager. "Ma'am, could you check on those three? What rooms are they in? When did they check in?"

"I can answer that," she said immediately. "Yesterday. After three," she added.

Colby's face drooped. "That answers that," he said to the others. "Our sniper made his move late morning." He shifted his eyes toward the trio. "They weren't even here." He tightened his lips. "So who else was here in a wheelchair?"

David spoke up. "Let's talk to the cleaning staff."

* * *

><p>Chadford was the type of small town, Charlie decided, that postcards didn't do justice to. On a weekday afternoon such as this, the streets were not crowded along the single file line of tiny shops selling everything that a small gathering of inhabitants would want. The dress shop was open but empty save for the bored saleswoman perusing a magazine, barely visible through the large windows filled with mannequins. The sports shop was closed for a change-over in inventory, moving from the early fall hiking gear to the impending winter skiing equipment, and Charlie recalled Kate mentioning that Chadford owed most of its income and its tax base to the winter tourism industry and the people who supplied it.<p>

Charlie pulled into an empty parking slot in front of the building that doubled as a town hall and police station in one, with the main hall renting out—discount for residents only, all others pay an arm and a leg—for special occasions such as weddings, birthday parties, and fiftieth anniversaries. Kate had given him the name of the mayor, Evan Pantini, as the go-to person in town.

Kate herself hadn't looked particularly good when he'd last seen her in the hospital. Her father, an elderly stooped man looking older than his years, was there in the room, and even Charlie could tell that the man was terrified. Kate had already lost a sister to side effects of osteoporosis; Mr. Tierney was clearly afraid that the same would happen to Kate, the girl gasping for breath behind an oxygen mask and trying get the words out in short puffs to her professor.

Making this trip was the right thing to do, Charlie decided. Kate was so passionate about her cause, dedicated to making things right, and slowing down the process just because she was ill was not something that Charlie could do. Yeah, SW Chemicals might give him a hard time over this, but he could legitimately say that he was doing research to either prove or disprove her assertion and hadn't the FBI also asked him to work on a case involving the company?

He took another look around as he got out of the car, noting the ramp in front of the town hall designed for easy access for those in wheelchairs. Another example of what was going on? Or just some over-zealous townspeople trying to make a case?

Well, he wouldn't find out by standing outside. Charlie closed the car door to the Prius, listening to beep of the automatic lock, and made his way inside.

There was a reception desk, but no one sitting there. The place, apparently, wasn't large enough to warrant an actual person. Visitors had to make do with the neatly printed sign indicating who resided in which office. Charlie scanned the sign and located the office of the mayor.

The door was open, but the mayor was not in residence. Charlie knocked on the open door and, hearing nothing, ventured inside.

A man after Charlie's own heart: the office was as messy and cluttered as Charlie's own office. There were a few differences—no whiteboard, for one—but papers festooned the desk top until there wasn't one inch of space left uncovered. There were books on the shelves behind the desk, interrupted by two plaques bearing medals. Charlie took a moment to read them: they were ribbons for valor, awarded by the military. Another one was for marksmanship, a trophy for scoring the highest on the firing range.

There was also something odd: the desk had no chair positioned behind it. Charlie looked twice; yes, he wasn't missing a large and un-missable piece of furniture. There was no chair. There were chairs for guests, in front of the desk, but someone had removed the desk chair for purposes unknown.

Nothing more to be found here, and Charlie was after the inhabitant of the office: Mayor Evan Pantini. He wandered back out into the corridor in search of someone he could ask.

Most of the offices were empty, but someone he found was able to point Charlie in the right direction. "Evan? He's out back, working out. Take the next right, two lefts, and head out through the double doors."

Charlie could do that. He emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight into a second parking lot located behind the building. Three police cars sat along the edges, keeping the center of the lot clear for people to shoot hoops.

There was only one person taking advantage of the fine weather and the basketball hoop: a man, bouncing the ball through the wire rim with astonishing accuracy. The feat was made all the more remarkable by the fact that the man had a few more feet of distance to achieve before the basketball swirled into the hoop: the man was doing all the b-ball shooting seated from a wheelchair. His tee was grimy with sweat, his hair drenched with water borrowed from the drinking bottle on the edge of the lot, but his face was flushed with exertion and achievement.

"Uh…Excuse me?" Charlie called.

The man whirled around. "Damn! You made me miss my shot," he exclaimed as the ball bounded off the rim and toward one of the police vehicles.

Charlie rescued the ball and handed it over. "I'm looking for Mayor Evan Pantini."

"You found him." Evan started to offer a handshake, then intercepted himself to wipe his palm on his tee before offering it once again. "You must be Katie's Professor Eppes."

"Charlie." Charlie took the proffered hand. "She owes you a lot for this research. You mobilized the town. I've never seen data of this sort gathered this quickly."

Evan's face darkened. "We've got a lot of motivation," he informed Charlie. "We're _dying_ here in Chadford, and it's all because of that damn company!"

SW Chemicals. Charlie didn't say the name aloud, because it would only have urged the mayor to greater anger.

Mayor Pantini seemed to recognize that as well, for he calmed himself down. "You're not here to go over old ground," he said. "Katie explained her research to me, said we had to play by the rules, or the damn suits would just shut us up in court again, just like they've done over the past five years. What do we do?"

Charlie threw himself into the task gratefully. "Give me access to the town records: births and deaths—especially deaths and their causes for the past, oh, ten years just to be safe. I'll want to know what companies operate in this area besides SW Chemicals. Not that I'd know what else can cause this sort of damage, but if I collect the information I can take it to people who can point us in the right direction. Other than that, I thought I'd kind of poke around and see what lines of research suggest themselves."

"You've got it," Evan said when his cell rang. "Excuse me." He tapped the screen, frowning, not recognizing the number. "Mayor Pantini—oh, Mr. Tierney. How's Kate?"

As Charlie watched, the mayor's face froze. Charlie could almost count the red blood cells draining from the man's head and knew that something very bad had happened.

It was further confirmed by the tears that sprang unbidden to Mayor Pantini's eyes. He looked up at Charlie from his wheelchair, letting the hand with the cell phone fall into his lap. "The pneumonia," he choked out. "It ripped through her like a freight train. Her ribs were crumbling from the osteoporosis, couldn't support her lungs."

Charlie caught his breath. "She's…?"

"They couldn't stop it. She died an hour ago."

* * *

><p>The security guards to SW Chemicals knew them by now and all but waved them through without a hassle. Don, however, had no doubt that the guards were on the phone within five seconds after, warning their masters that trouble had arrived yet again and was on the way up, courtesy of elevator number two.<p>

_Surprise_, Don thought. _We're not looking for another interview with either Hathaway or Herr Jorgen. We've got another itinerary altogether_. He stabbed the button for the fifth floor instead of the twelfth, and led Lt. Walker out onto another floor of the facility.

This floor was very different from the polished suites above. The floor wasn't carpeted for quiet, but tiled for durability. The walls were clean, but that was only because they had been freshly painted in the recent past, and Don suspected that the paint job had been long overdue. Dust and grime were already collecting in the corners. Heavy metal desks were placed against each other to form small islands of working space throughout the large and cavernous room, and the whine of stressed printers set his teeth on edge.

Each desk was occupied by a worker slaving over a computer, churning out papers that presumably directed other workers to produce this chemical instead of that, and where the resulting product would be shipped. _Mother lode_, Don thought to himself. This was the initiation of the invoice, and somewhere in this mess was the start of the illegal transfer of information. One of these people was dirty.

He had given Walker his instructions. Neither one of them would recognize the code if it reared up and bit them on the nose, but that wasn't the point. Nervous people made mistakes, and Don and Walker were out to make people nervous. That would give the FBI a badly needed lead.

Walker ambled over to one computer with someone tapping on the keyboard, a young man forced by the economy to work at an entry level position instead of the exalted and well-paid position his college degree entitled him to. Don could see the tension ratchet up into the stratosphere; the shoulders hunched, the head turned halfway round before concentrating on the screen. All very predictable, right down to the young man screwing up his courage and asking, "Can I help you with something?" Nervous, and all the more polite because of it.

Walker waved airily back. "Nope. Keep goin'. I'm just looking."

Don fought to keep the vicious grin under wraps. This was working just fine. Walker played the part of the stalking goat, while Don watched the other workers observing the interaction. There would be unhappy twitches somewhere, and Don wanted to catch them.

So far, nothing. Walker loomed over two more workers, eliciting the same set of fear, but Don didn't see anything from anyone else beyond the normal sort of curiosity and worry that he would expect. Nobody, but nobody, was completely innocent of everything, and Don was used to the sort of suspicion that arose whenever he announced his status as a law enforcement officer. It was the 'did they really miss the red light that I ran?' sort of reaction, but that was an entirely different sort of twitch than the_ I'm guilty as sin_ one that he was looking for.

A glance exchanged, and Don and Walker switched places. Don did the looming, and Walker watched. Don's looming technique was entirely different from his temporary partner's: while Walker tended to stand over the hopefully guilty party and cast a shadow, Don preferred to stand back and stare at one particular spot, right between the shoulder blades. He had no idea why it should be that particular spot, but he found even looking one inch up or down made a difference. It caused every person to _itch_, guilty or not, and Don had lost count of the times that he broken cases wide open due to that stare. The spot was right around the fifth thoracic vertebrae; Don had talked to a nurse friend of his once, and they'd looked it up in her textbooks.

So here he was, staring at the fifth thoracic vertebrae through a blue linen blazer tossed over a tank top on a girl who looked pretty enough to have come to Hollywood to seek her fame and fortune and who'd ended up here, trying to pay the rent while she waited to be discovered. Lots of twitches on her; Don found that borderline amusing, since she didn't look prosperous enough to own a car with which she could run red lights. No, probably did medical marijuana without the benefit of a prescription or illness that would require medical marijuana. _Everybody is guilty of something_.

He moved onto the next worker, a middle-aged woman who had seen too much life in too short a time. Overweight, dumpy, clothes bought at some thrift shop somewhere; Don amused himself by creating a back story for her. Had maybe one or two kids with a husband who'd left town when the task of actually being a father got to be too much. Don took a moment to be grateful for his own upbringing. As difficult as it had been with a genius twerp for a little brother, he had to hand it to his parents: they made sure that Don got his share of the love. Okay, it didn't seem that way at the time but Don remembered his mother mentioning as long as both sons were complaining about getting the short end of the stick, she figured she was dealing it out equally. Could the traitor be this woman he was looking at? Probably not. She just didn't look smart enough to be able to apply a cipher that required a Charlie-level genius to figure out. On the other hand, anyone smart enough to apply a code like that would be smart enough to look like they weren't smart enough…oh, hell. He knew what he meant, and he wasn't getting any vibes from this woman. He moved on to the next fifth thoracic vertebrae.

It took closer to half an hour for Hathaway to arrive to inquire oh so politely through clenched teeth if Special Agent Eppes and Lt. Walker required any assistance. Don was surprised. He'd have thought that they'd be here in ten, trotting down the stairs just as soon as they'd heard that the FBI wasn't concentrating on the Executive Suite any longer.

Maybe Hathaway and Vorgen were playing it cool? After all, they were upstanding businessmen who had nothing to hide. Well, actually, they had their secret formulas to hide, which was what had caused the FBI to become involved in the first place, but…Don sighed. He was getting tired of arguing with himself.

He was also getting tired of arguing with Upper Management types who weren't offering much. Don fixed Hathaway with a cool stare that he'd perfected over the course of the years. "We're here, Mr. Hathaway, because this is where our research led us."

Walker put in his two cents. "You got a problem, Hathaway, with us finding out how information from your company is endin' up in the hands of the Russian Mafia?"

Hathaway paled. "What?"

"You heard him," Don said evenly. "This is no longer just about the murder of George Remini, Mr. Hathaway. We're looking into allegations of treason." _Which means someone can get the death penalty. Think about that when you respond._

"What are you talking about?" Hathaway seemed genuinely upset, and not a little scared. "I thought you were here about…George."

He should be upset, Don told himself. It's not every day that you hear that your company is up to its eyeballs in espionage, and this was the first that Hathaway was hearing of it. _Bet he's grateful that Herr Jorgen isn't hovering at his shoulder_. Hathaway's chances of a corporate promotion would be heading into the negative probabilities right now. _The way this is going, he'll be lucky to land a job printing out invoices next to Mrs. Downtrodden over there_, Don decided.

Don turned up the heat. "It appears, Mr. Hathaway, that information about chemical weapons is being smuggled out through your company."

Beads of sweat popped out on the man's forehead. "That's…that's not possible. We take every precaution…"

"Obviously not," Walker inserted, "else we wouldn't be here, and your vice president of marketing wouldn't be dead."

Now Hathaway looked ready to collapse. "You can't mean…"

"How about we take this discussion somewhere a little more private?" Don suggested with a meaningful look at the wage-earners at the low end desks who were all trying to look as though they weren't listening to every word that was said. "I have a few questions about your processes…"

* * *

><p>It would take a medical expert to decipher the multiple causes of deaths over the past few years, Charlie realized within the first half hour of research in the files. He'd had to do his own medical research first to find out that no one ever died of osteoporosis. No, they tended to die from things that osteoporosis caused, such as blood clots associated with fractured bones and pneumonia associated with broken ribs—like Kate. Was there an over-abundance of deaths recently? Charlie hadn't a clue. He'd need to do more research than he'd expected, perhaps even consult some experts in epidemiology to figure out the answer to that question. It was no wonder that Kate and the rest of Chadford had gotten shot down in court; they had even less idea than Charlie as to how to go about proving their case. It had been easy for the SW Chemicals lawyers to punch holes in any case that came before a judge. Chadford was beaten before anyone even started.<p>

Not any more. Now they had Charlie, and they had a Dr. Charles Eppes with a mission. He had told Kate that he couldn't help, but that was before all of this. Kate could no longer carry on the fight, and Dr. Charles Eppes felt obligated to do what he could.

This had become personal. Charlie intended to do everything that he had told Kate to do, from researching the disease to set the parameters for the statistical analysis to determining the endpoints and the threshold for action. Charlie had a number of good connections who would be very helpful in this fight, and he intended to use as many as he needed. SW Chemicals could shut up a small town mayor and a bright young girl, but Professor Charles Eppes had a little more clout.

Kate had already done the research, had set the parameters, but Charlie knew better than to trust her work. She was good—very good for her age and experience—but Charlie expected to go up against people who were much better and with a lot of money in their pockets. If he wanted to win—oh, yes, he did!—then he needed to be prepared to defend every sentence, every number, every piece of evidence to the bitter end. Furthermore, his detractors could point to Charlie's own work with SW Chemicals, so Charlie needed to make absolutely certain that his research was airtight before taking that next step. If that meant reviews by experts in the field, so much the better.

Working in the files wasn't going to get him anywhere, not yet. Charlie would need to go back to the very beginnings of Kate's work and figure out if he could support the decisions that she'd made for the research. Coming back to the files would happen after that, so that he could legitimately extract data according to pre-set limits and analyze the raw data according to mathematical standards that SW Chemicals—or whoever—couldn't deny.

In the meantime, there were other things that Charlie could do here in Chadford. Numbers would prove what needed to be proved, but one had to have original information in order to apply numbers theory. Charlie had done all he could in the files, but now he needed to obtain additional information about the problems in Chadford. He brushed the dust off of his clothing and ascended the stairs. _This is one place that Mayor Pantini could never get to, nor Kate_, he thought ruefully_. This building was built before Federal Codes kicked in. Anyone using a wheelchair would have to rely on someone else to dig out this data_. Charlie had no doubt, however, that Kate had had plenty of volunteers to assist her. Chadford was that kind of town.

The mayor was in his office, fielding phone calls with reddened eyes. The tears weren't there any more but there was a pinched look to the man's face that spoke of the recent tragedy. Charlie swallowed hard; while in the files he had been able to forget the events that had sent him here but now, facing Mayor Pantini, it hit him once more.

_Kate, you deserved better from life. The world has lost a treasure_.

"We'll be using the town hall for the memorial service." Evan's voice was brittle but clear. "It won't be for a few days; Mr. Tierney has asked the coroner to do a thorough work up, to see if there are any clues to stop SW Chemicals from dumping more of their…_stuff_…in our back yard."

The mayor had obviously revised his choice of language under the circumstances. "I think Kate would have liked that," Charlie said cautiously.

Evan moved onto a safer topic. "Did you find anything?"

Charlie was honest. "I'm not certain, yet. I have to do more research, then I'll be back."

"But you found something?" the mayor pushed.

"Maybe." Charlie refused to say for certain. "Right now I'm still in the exploratory phase, covering the same ground as Kate did. Maybe in a different fashion," he added thoughtfully. "Kate told me that SW Chemicals had a storage facility outside of town."

"That's right. They were careful; they put it outside of the township limits so that we couldn't touch them ourselves. We have to go through the state regulators, and they've all been bought off to look the other way. If they'd put it inside our limits, the Town Council would have fined the daylights out of them. They'd be out of business."

_They still might be. Losing national security information in the form of a chemical equation isn't something that Uncle Sam looks favorably upon._ Charlie kept that information quiet. It wasn't his to share, and somehow he didn't think that Don would appreciate the details of the FBI case being shared with people who already had an axe to grind with SW Chemicals. "I'm thinking that I want to see the storage facility before I head back home. Can you tell me where it is?"

"Easy," Evan said grimly. "I've got it memorized; not that it's hard to find," he added. "Just look for the grove of dead trees next to the brown muddy stream." Bitterly. "You think you can find something useful there?"

Charlie shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. I'm currently consulting for the FBI, and I've learned that there can be a great deal of value in seeing the scene of the crime. It brings out associations that I never realized could exist, back when I stayed in my office."

"The FBI?" Evan raised his eyebrows. "I thought you taught; that's what Katie said. You moonlight?"

"Consult," Charlie corrected. "All the time. Mostly the FBI right now," he said. "I've consulted for other government agencies as well as private industries."_ I'm not going to tell you that I consulted for SW Chemicals, too._

Evan's eyes went cold. "What are you working on?" he wanted to know.

Charlie winced. "I don't think that I'm allowed to tell you. FBI rules."

"There was a murder at SW Chemicals," Evan said bluntly. "We follow what's going on with that company pretty closely; can you blame us? Is that the FBI case you're working on?"

Charlie shifted uncomfortably. "No." It wasn't quite a lie. It wasn't the murder that Charlie was working on, it was the codes embedded in the invoices.

Evan didn't believe him for one second. Misery turned to anger in a flash. "Why are you really here, Dr. Eppes?" he demanded. "Are you spying on us, using Katie as an excuse? That's pretty low, even for the Feds."

"I'm not spying—"

"Or maybe you're going to try to say that you're investigating the government officials who've been paid off to look the other way. Is that it?"

"No, I-"

"I didn't think so. You government types all stick together, don't rat each other out. You can leave now," Mayor Pantini announced. He sat back in his wheelchair, folding his arms to make his angry point. "You're not wanted in Chadford, Dr. Eppes. We'll solve our own damn problems, and then we'll ram the solution down your throat and every throat that sits on the SW Chemicals Board of Directors."

"I'm not—"

"Get out!" Mayor Pantini demanded. "Get out of town, or I'll have you arrested for trespassing and whatever else I can throw at you. Get out!"

Charlie got.


	7. We Sure Pissed Off Someone

"Whaddya think, Eppes?" Walker asked, letting the glass doors to the SW Chemicals building slide shut behind them. "They dirty?"

Don grimaced. "If they are, it's a damn good act. We should put them up for Oscars."

Walker nodded thoughtfully. "That's what I was thinkin'. I'm the first to admit that I can get fooled, but those two sounded pretty sincere. 'Sides, they got a good thing goin' with the US State Department. Messin' that up sounds like a pretty stupid move, don'cha think?"

Both Hathaway and Jorgen had been appalled to learn that SW Chemicals was involved in espionage, that Remini's customer 'Serena Stevens' was actually Lt. Col. Serena Caruthers of the DOD, and that it wasn't just a murder that they were facing. The barriers came crashing down—"don't kid yourself, Eppes. They're just worried about losing the biggest contract they got"—and both men disgorged mass quantities about the flow of information with respect to how invoices were generated.

"Yeah," Don agreed, "which means that it's someone else who works there. How many employees are there?"

"Four hundred and sixty three," Walker replied unhelpfully, "not including the night time security folks who are out-sourced from a small outfit with headquarters in the Valley."

The task of tracking down a single invoice with the suspect code looked daunting. Don sighed. "I think we're going to need Charlie for this one. Flows of information: that's his specialty." He brightened. "He said that he should have the answer for us right about now. He had his computer working out what the next segment of code would be, so that we could hunt for it in the invoices. We'll tell him that 'the scope of the project expanded.'"

"Eppes, you know how many invoices that place generates each day?" Walker was mildly horrified.

"Exactly, which is why I want Charlie in on this," Don replied. "Scan 'em into the computer, and Charlie can set up some sort of character recognition process."

Walker was skeptical. "He can do stuff like that? Sounds like science fiction."

"Sometimes I think that half of what Charlie does is science fiction," Don agreed. "If it can't be done, Charlie'll tell me. Where'd I leave the truck?"

"Over there." Walker pointed to the guest area of the parking lot. "You sure you're a field agent, Eppes? You lose your vehicle often?"

"You complaining?" Don replied. "We can always waste your gas instead of mine. C'mon, let's go see what Charlie's up to."

"You said that he went out of town last night," Walker reminded him.

"Yeah, but he should be back by now."

"How 'bout callin' him, 'stead of wasting a trip?"

"Take it from me on this one," Don said. "Charlie picks up his cell only half the time. He could have gotten back this morning, taught class, and gotten himself lost in his latest theory, all before noon."

Walker shrugged. "Best offer I've had all day. Let's go, Eppes, and you can have your brother convince me that the aliens from Area 51 are behind this entire mess." He jerked his chin toward Don's SUV, reaching out to open the door to the vehicle. "Just don't run any red lights, or I'll have to issue you a ticket, brother or no brother."

Don chuckled. The line wasn't funny, but that wasn't the point. Walker was trying to keep up with technology that the FBI was using, and trying for humor to cope. Don pulled out his keys to de-activate the car lock, and snagged the door handle to the Suburban.

It was only a small hiss. One slight noise, and then Don saw the wires stretching from a dark box to the steering column inside the SUV. Too late, he saw that there were new scratches around the lock to the car door. Too late, he saw a white vapor rising to meet him.

_We sure pissed off somebody_.

It didn't smell bad; actually, it was kind of sweet. Cloyingly sweet, to be honest, and it was closing up his throat. Don tried to inhale, to shout a warning to Walker, and found that he couldn't. Even coughing wasn't happening; he couldn't draw in enough breath with which to cough.

"Eppes…!"

Walker too was affected, Don noted with dismay, feeling more than seeing the edges of black creep in around his field of vision. Dammit, he should have been more careful! Don clutched onto the door handle of the Suburban, demanding that his knees continue to support him, listening to Walker gasp into his cell.

"Walker… LA…PD…Officer…down…Send…"

Don never heard the last word. _Was it because Walker never got it out, or did I just do a face plant? Guess I'll never know the answer to that question._

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

* * *

><p>The facility where SW Chemicals stored its waste was outside the township limits, Charlie had learned while doing his research, so Charlie headed there. He didn't blame the mayor for being angry. Charlie suspected that the whole town was angry and grieving: they had lost another one of their one, the girl who looked like she had the best chance of solving their problem, and Charlie was a convenient target. The anger was misplaced, but Mayor Evan Pantini couldn't know that. Charlie wasn't part of the cover-up, wasn't working for SW Chemicals. He was working for the FBI and, more importantly, here to continue the work that Kate had started. Charlie was here to help, and he felt even more of an obligation now that his student was beyond doing anything herself.<p>

How could this have happened? How could a young girl have died, and under such horrible circumstances? How had SW Chemicals been allowed to wreak such havoc in people's lives, and no one able to stop them?

No. Now Charlie himself was letting his emotions get away with him, letting his own grief over Kate's death drive him to unwarranted conclusions. Sure, SW Chemicals might be responsible, but 'might be' and 'definitely was' were two entirely different concepts. If Charlie really wanted to bring them to justice, really wanted to honor Kate's mission and her life, then he would go about this the right way. He would _prove_ who was responsible for this devastation beyond the shadow of a doubt, and dedicate the victory to Kate.

The Prius was not the best vehicle to navigate these high mountain roads. The carriage was too low, and Charlie winced every time he drove over a rut or scraped the bottom of the car on some rock sticking up. He'd have to bring the thing in for an overhaul once he returned to civilization, he decided grimly. Next time he drove up here, he'd borrow his brother's Suburban. Better yet, he'd rent a vehicle for someone else to repair.

These were not the mountains that Charlie knew. Charlie, when camping with his family a long time ago, had gone to beautiful camping grounds, places where the trees were fully leafed and the bushes threatened to overgrow the trails. Small furry things scuttled under the brush and birds twittered in the branches above, and the greatest joy of Charlie's camping life was to go out on the lake with his father—leaving Don behind, 'cause his big brother always tried to boss him around—and fish. Charlie didn't catch much, but that was all right. It was the chance to be alone with his father, show his dad that Charlie could be a real kid like Don.

Charlie blinked. He hadn't realized until this moment just how much he had envied Don growing up. Sure, Charlie had gotten the tutors, the admiration, the praise for being good with numbers, but didn't matter when he was stuck in the ball park stands with his mom and dad watching Don hit one out of the park. The whole crowd cheered when Don stepped up to the plate, and that was when Don was only thirteen. Charlie's cheers only came from one or two people at a time. Don got a whole crowd. _It wasn't easy, being special._

Even now some of that lingered. Sure, Charlie got a lot of notice, but it was still from a very select—and small— group of people. To the world, Charlie was simply another ivory tower researcher to be shoved into a tiny room with a whiteboard and a computer until he came out with something revolutionary that someone else could take the credit for promoting.

_Is that why I'm doing this, up here in Chadford_, he wondered, _for the glory of it?_ He shook his head, smiling ruefully that no one could see his action.

He examined his feelings carefully on the matter, dodging three potholes that rivaled the Grand Canyon for size. For the glory of it—no. Even though the accolades he received were only appreciated by an elite few, that was not why he was out here in the forest, researching the cause of an excessive incidence of osteoporosis in a small town. There were two reasons, really: first, because he was incapable of putting down a puzzle until he'd solved it and two…Two, because he'd promised Kate. He'd promised her, and she was dead, and he would lay that fulfilled promise at her feet to honor her life. Charlie could do nothing less, not if he wanted to continue to look at himself in the mirror each morning.

The forest here was not what he was used to but was, due to his discussions with Kate, what he expected. Normal forests at this time of year were filled with green leaves, small plants pushing up tender shoots, birds and squirrels flitting from tree to tree with the occasional deer and fawn bounding across the road. This forest had none of that, only dead bark falling from bare branches. Even the sounds of insect life, normally heard with the windows of the Prius down, were absent. If he hadn't know better, he would have thought that there had been a fire recently.

The forest was dead. As dead as Charlie's student.

Clearly something was very wrong with the land, and Charlie wondered why the county or state government types hadn't picked up on it. Granted, it was pretty far away from everything, but that didn't mean that it should be overlooked.

The whole thing was odd. Charlie could even see the land conservation agencies not knowing about it, but Kate had specifically said that complaints had been made, and not by only one person. Could she and the rest of Chadford been right? Was SW Chemicals squelching any investigation? Charlie didn't want to think that it was possible. Don might think that Charlie was naïve over such matters, but Don wasn't always right. Charlie had spent several years working for a little government agency called the NSA, and while he wasn't about to say he'd come directly up against self-serving politicians he still knew that some of his work hadn't seen the light of day for less than honorable reasons.

All right, it was time to poke around. Charlie didn't have the best public speaking skills for the common media, but it was going to be more difficult to shut him up than a teen-age girl, and more so when he had the power of numbers behind him.

Charlie scanned the forest surrounding him, pulling into the dirt roadway that led to the waste storage facility, considering the best approach to bringing the problem out into the open. For the average citizen, numbers might not be the best way to reach them. Pictures of this devastation might work a lot better. Judges, politicians, government workers—yes, there Charlie's numbers would be most effective to describe the overall effects that a mere picture couldn't offer. Put up a picture of a dead forest and then say that this was going on over tens of acres—that was effective. Put up a picture of a dead forest and then talk about the number of voters in Chadford with osteoporosis because of it—that would be effective.

Now all Charlie had to do was to prove the connection.

There was a lot of work Charlie should do back in his office: research osteoporosis, including its effects, the incidence of it, what types of people that it tended to attack. Just as he'd told Kate: he had to do that in order to prove that Chadford had more than its share of misery. That, however, was only one piece to the puzzle. The next step would be to link this storage facility to the problem, and for that he would need help. Not a problem; he was certain that Dr. Rogers in the Bio-Med department would love to jump on this. Charlie had heard that her last paper hadn't been well received, and something public-spirited such as this would be just the thing for her to sink her proverbial teeth into. Less theoretical research but more publicity—she'd love it.

_Is this how a politician feels? Making choices based on public opinion, not the sheer merits of the case?_ Charlie didn't think that he liked it. _Give me numbers any day._

The waste facility was guarded by a faded sign that indicated that trespassers were not permitted or encouraged. The beaten down dirt path suggested that people had tromped through here frequently but not recently, and Charlie wasn't about to surmise whether or not those people were authorized. He couldn't see anyone coming here for fun; this place wasn't enticing. Charlie pulled out his cell phone and started taking the kind of pictures that he thought that Dr. Rogers would want to see: the rusted out lock on the door that had been pried open a long time ago and not replaced. There was the rivulet of blue ugliness that was seeping out along the floor of the facility; it took itself onto the dirt outside the door and meandered off toward the stream that Charlie could see in the distance. That would be highly incriminating, Charlie thought. If whatever that blue stuff was got into the water supply, it might provide a path for contaminating the water supply of Chadford. As soon as he was finished taking pictures, he resolved to search the Prius for some sort of container to scoop up some of the blue stuff and take back with him. Wouldn't Astrid Perry in Chemistry have a time trying to figure out what it was?

The interior of the waste facility was equally as discouraging. Charlie could see where at least three of the large metal drums had rusted through and begun to leak vile blue stuff, and the seepage had encouraged three more drums to begin their own leaks where ever the blue stuff touched. Charlie himself avoided coming in contact with the chemical waste. He didn't know what it was, didn't know what the results would be if he touched it, but he was certain that he didn't want to find out on a first hand basis. Let someone else make that determination at a safe distance, like in a chem lab with a ventilation hood.

There were dozens of drums, dozens upon dozens, stacked up three layers high and even four in others. They rested upon a poured concrete floor, some of which had been eaten away by the blue stuff. That suggested to Charlie that some of the blue stuff had sunk into the ground below, and he dutifully snapped another few shots with his cell phone, wondering how much memory the small electronic tool had left in its innards.

That was enough here inside the storage facility. Charlie put two last pictures of the black notebook on the table just inside the entryway into his cell, showing that the last inspection had been more than three years ago, and moved himself outside.

The blue slime drifted off in the direction of the gurgling stream some small distance down the hillside, and Charlie followed the path, careful not to step on the rivulet of chemicals. Dead twigs snapped beneath his shoes, and more dead brush broke as he passed by. Here and there a sickly green shoot of some weed tried to eke out a living from the soil, but it was tough and unrewarding work.

The scenery around the stream was even more damning for SW Chemicals. The water came from melting snow high on the mountaintop, trickling down toward the valley. Some ten yards upstream from where the blue slime entered the water there was lush greenery and tall trees hanging over the water; it was idyllic. Here, where Charlie had followed the trail of slime to the stream, the foliage had abruptly died. There was no life at the spot where Charlie was looking: no small fish, no water beetles, no overhanging plant life. Just…dead. Charlie snapped several more pictures, committing the scene to cell phone memory, determined to download the pictures to his safer computer. They would be ready to accompany whatever report he could come up with. He had contacts at the State level with the environmental folks, and if Chadford had gotten shut down by SW Chemicals? Well, Charlie knew some back doors to get this information to the right people. In fact, Charlie thought with this evidence, he'd be able to go straight to Jake Stafford of the State EPA and get some action. Jake wouldn't wait for Charlie to finish his study—doing an environmental research study wasn't Charlie's strong suit, anyway—before getting some EPA inspectors out here. Jake was the type not to move until he was sure, but these photos would send some inspectors hustling. In fact, knowing Jake, a few pictures like this might be all that was needed to solve Chadford's problem. The immediate problem, he meant. The ongoing effects would take a lifetime.

Charlie straightened up from taking his last picture, a close up of a struggling water weed, its stem twisted and contorted in a way that Nature had never intended. He stretched, thinking that this had been a good day's work. The memory of Mayor Pantini shouting at him still rankled, but Charlie was certain that the mayor would apologize once he discovered that Charlie really was here to help. The man's anger had been born out of grief and loss.

_Crck!_

The sound impinged a full two seconds before Charlie realized what had occurred: a gun shot. Not a loud sound. The noise had come from some distance away.

Charlie was suddenly on the ground. How had that happened—?

The pain hit. It sliced open his shoulder and burrowed into his chest like an army of angry bees.

_I've been shot!_


	8. Damn Hard Work

"Don! Keep breathing, man!"

_You keep breathing. This is damn hard work._

"Tell him about the trail we found, David. That'll keep him going. He'll refuse to go under, just to hear what you have to say."

_You two found something? What? Gonna crack this case open?_

"How's Walker?"

"They're putting him in the ambulance right now, Colby. They think Don got the worst of it."

_Oh, good. I'd hate to think that Walker is having the same tough time trying to breathe. What the hell happened?_

There was a body leaning over him. "Early signs, Don, of somebody rigging your truck with a smoke bomb to go off when you pulled on the door. Forensics has been called; they're going to be looking to identify what was used in the smoke. The docs at the hospital are already primed to get that information as soon as we have it. You're going to be all right, Don."

_If you're going to lie to me, David, do it a little more convincingly._

A voice in the background, one he didn't recognize. "I don't think tubing him will do any good, Rampart. I'd like permission to hit him with another amp of epi."

A small sting in his thigh.

"Stay with me, Don. Keep fighting."

_You keep fighting. Me, I think I'm going to take a nap, whether I want to…or not…_

* * *

><p><em>Help. I've got to get help.<em>

It hurt. It hurt to move, and it hurt to stay still.

_I have to call for help_.

His arm hurt. His chest hurt. His whole body hurt, but most of all his arm. The one wouldn't work but Charlie, inch by small inch, forced the other hand to flip open the cell phone that was still nestled there.

_Thank heaven for speed dial_. It meant seven fewer digits to tackle.

"You have reached the voicemail of Special Agent Don Eppes. Please leave a message, and I'll return your call."

"Don…help…"

The cell phone tumbled from his grasp.

* * *

><p>Amazing how such a short period of not breathing could turn him into jelly. Even picking up a glass of water to soothe his throat seemed beyond his abilities at the moment. Someone had clearly come along and glued every limb of his body to the white linen sheets on this hospital bed, because Don felt unable to move.<p>

David understood. He picked up the glass, adjusting the straw so that Don could draw in some of the liquid. It wasn't cold enough, but that didn't matter at the moment. Don could only manage a few sips before his lungs demanded its fair share of oxygen.

There was something else that Don needed to know. He forced his sore throat to cooperate. "Walk…er…?"

David proved once again that he'd passed his FBI-approved course in telepathy. "Doing better than you, Don," he reassured his boss. "You caught the worst of it. The bomb was located under the edge of the driver's side door, wired to the handle. You hit the unlock switch, and it went off. Walker was able to call in for help before he was overcome."

"Any…body…"

"Anybody else hurt? No." David set the glass back onto the table. "The gas dissipated, and dispersed onto the ground. Forensics vacuumed it up, and sprayed the area down with water. We're keeping the parking lot clear for another couple of days. One of the Forensics guys said that if we don't see any pigeons gasping for breath, it should be okay to use after that."

"Who…?"

"We don't know yet. Forensics is still working on it, but we don't have many answers. No fingerprints, of course, and the Suburban is going to need some serious time in the shop before it's ready to rumble. The bomb itself looks pretty makeshift, from the remnants that Forensics recovered. Somebody who knew what they were doing slapped it together in a hurry from spare parts lying around and tucked it under the bottom of the Suburban."

"Scared…"

"Yes, we've got someone at SW Chemicals running scared. The question is: who?" David leaned over. "Colby and I did a little more digging into Hathaway and Vorgen. We're running into international roadblocks on Vorgen, but some business accounts linked to Hathaway have shown some hefty transfers of money. But, Don, this is the part that doesn't make sense: the money is flowing out, not in. If Hathaway is the one selling the chemical formulas, where is the money going?"

Don didn't have an answer to that, and his sore throat was grateful.

David moved on. "I talked to your docs; they're going to spring you tomorrow. They want to keep an eye on you overnight, just in case. Worried about pneumonia, or something like that. Colby wanted to call your dad, but I persuaded him not to. I thought you'd probably want to spare him the scare, since you're going to be all right. You can tell him later, if you want. Or not at all."

"Thanks…"

"I tried calling Charlie, to see if he's come through on the invoice formula stuff, but he's not picking up. I figure Colby and I can swing by his office later, see what he's got."

Don grunted, and instantly regretted it. He broke out into a spasm of coughing.

David offered him another sip of water. "In the meantime, Colby and I will follow up on these two angles: where is the money going from SW Chemicals, and who planted the bomb in your vehicle?"

"Care…ful…"

David grimaced. "You bet we're going to be careful. Colby's already looking under his own car three times before he touches the door handle, and I'm about ready to demand a rookie to sit in my own car and watch the thing while I work." He squeezed Don's shoulder. "You rest, boss, and we'll be back to get you in the morning."

* * *

><p>He remained completely undisturbed. No wildlife entered the devastated area to investigate the unmoving body, leaking blood into the ground. Three small birds flew past and didn't tarry; there was no reason to, no berries to eat and no bugs to snatch off of the water.<p>

All of which meant that Charlie didn't move. Movement meant the deliberate infliction of pain, and that was beyond Charlie's capabilities.

* * *

><p>Colby glowered. "I hate looking at numbers," he announced. "Why couldn't we get someone else to do this?"<p>

"We tried. We haven't been able to get hold of Charlie."

"You know what I mean, David."

"Going through the books? Don't you remember how the FBI nailed Al Capone, by convicting him of tax evasion, by looking at his accounts?" David leaned back in his chair, equally as disgusted at their task but unwilling to admit it in front of Colby. "I presume that this means that you're hitting the same dead ends that I am." He clicked them off on his fingers. "One: we have fifty thousand dollars going to a Swiss bank account in the name of ZCR Consulting. Two months later, we have another seventy five thousand also going to ZCR Consulting, along with fifty to VBN Consulting. SW Chemicals seems to be doing a lot of consulting, with very few reports or activity to show for it."

Colby nodded. "They even consulted Charlie. Maybe we should investigate him."

"Not the same thing, Granger, and you know it. _Charlie_ left a report. I tried to read it, and got lost before I finished the first page." David looked at the clock on the wall, noting the late hour. "I'd really like to have something to hand over to Don in the morning."

"Yeah." Colby's face turned grim, thinking about his boss lying flat on his back in a hospital. "This is getting personal." He glanced around the room. It was a conference room in SW Chemicals, a place where the pair of FBI agents had been stashed with computers and temporary passwords to delve into the accountings of the target company. The set up was a compromise: David Sinclair had demanded access to the accounting department's work. Hathaway had objected, and David had retaliated by threatening to get a court order to remove all of the computers in the department. Hathaway had given in, but not graciously. The result was that the two FBI agents were working to dig out the SW Chemical cash flows. Colby stroked his chin. "Maybe we should get some help from the Walking Dead in Accounting back at FBI Headquarters…hey."

"Hey, what?" David looked up.

"I don't think that this is the whole story."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, look at this." Colby gestured at the computer in general. "I mean, if you were somebody receiving hush money or whatever is going on here, would your name be on the account? Hey, look at me, Mr. XYZ or whatever. I'm getting money from SW Chemicals to arrange a hit on George Remini."

"You sound like you're going somewhere with this," David observed.

"Yeah, I'm going somewhere with it. I'm going upstairs, to those chicks with the desks outside of the big cheeses' offices. I think I want to look at their appointment calendars."

David frowned. "You think that Hathaway may have met with someone with these initials? Colby, that's crazy. Nobody would be that stupid, to leave a trace like that." He trailed off. "Let's check it out."

* * *

><p>Don sat down to pull his shirt over his head. It wasn't that he was going to topple over, mind you, if he tried to remain standing at the side of the hospital bed, but taking a chance on that prospect in front of David and Colby would be a good way to collect a humiliated red face if he'd over-estimated his capabilities. "What did you come up with?"<p>

David took the lead. "More questions than answers, Don. We found several cash dispersements that no one can account for. They go to Swiss bank accounts with patently fictitious names. Then we lose the trail. We put Col. Caruthers on that aspect; she's working with her Washington connections to put pressure on the Swiss."

"But…?" Don prompted, hearing the next phrase coming.

Colby took over. "We checked out the appointment calendars for Remini, Hathaway, and for Herr Vorgen. There was nothing on Remini's that looked suspicious, and Vorgen didn't have anything worth mentioning—he only got into town last Tuesday, and nothing for two months before that—but Hathaway had meetings with a couple of guys with the same initials as the consultants: ZCR and VCN."

Don nodded, wondering if he had the energy to stand up. "Nice work, guys. Who are those two with the initials? Anything?"

David frowned. "They're a couple of low level types at the state EPA. Not exactly the international black market dealers we were hoping for."

"Go betweens?" Okay, he had to stand to zip up the fly to his pants. Don worked at it, grouchily grateful for the steadying hand that David reached out.

"Maybe. We've got people on them, researching bank accounts." David changed the subject. "You got food at your place? We can stop and pick up something on the way while we take you home."

"Enough." Did he really? Don couldn't remember. It wasn't as though he did a lot of cooking in his apartment. His food preparation tended toward the task of throwing out the stuff with blue mold and then calling out for Chinese. Not a big deal. He didn't feel much like eating anyway. He'd crawl into bed, sleep most of the day and night away, then get up and finish off this case. "Anything on the bomb on my truck?"

"Yes and no." It was Colby's turn. "Forensics isn't finished, but they handed over some preliminaries. It looks like someone inside of SW Chemicals is responsible. They had easy access to the parking lot where you put the Suburban, and the chemicals used are in good supply inside the SW Chemicals facility. With the kind of security they've got on the parking lot, it would have been a cakewalk for someone to plant the bomb. Heck, I could have macgyvered something together inside of half an hour without even knowing where they stashed each chemical component."

"Which means that we've narrowed it down to some four hundred suspects," David summed up unhappily.

"Not quite," Don told him. "They'd have to know at least a little bit about chemistry. We can probably rule out the accounting department and the loading dock." He sat back down on the bed, trying to make it look deliberate and not desperate. "Hathaway would know. Vorgen, for certain. And it was half an hour before Hathaway arrived to ask what Walker and I were doing on the clerical floor," he remembered. "He would have had time to do it."

"But not any real motive," David pointed out. "Until he spoke to you, he didn't know that you had figured out that the formula was being smuggled out through the invoices."

It was all very puzzling, and Don said so. "Both Walker and I thought that Hathaway and Vorgen were clean. Neither of us got even a hint of guilt. Not over this. They both were horrified to think that classified information was being smuggled out. Speaking of which, how about Charlie's end? Did he come up with the next bit of coded formula that would be on an invoice?"

Colby shrugged. "Don't know. He wasn't in his office, and he's not picking up his cell."

"We just figured that he was zoning out on numbers again," David added. "Let me try him." He pulled out his cell, and hit the speed dial. "Nope," he reported. "Still not picking up. Maybe he's teaching a class right now," he offered.

Don frowned. "This is national security," he complained. "Let's swing by his office on the way to my place and drag the answer out of him."

David didn't like that answer. "How about we drop you off at your place first, and then Colby and I will drag it out of him?" he suggested. "Hate to break it to you, Don, but you're on medical leave for the next day or so."

"And you look like crap," Colby added helpfully.

Don grimaced. "Gee, thanks. All right, but if you need help persuading Charlie to cooperate—"

"We'll call you," David assured him.

Don looked around. "Where's the rest of my stuff? I'm ready to blow this place."

"I took charge of your weapon," David told him. "The rest should be in the bag with your clothes."

"Here it is." Colby handed the white plastic sack over, having found it in the small closet of the hospital room. He looked inside. "Uh, I think your shirt is toast. Literally. It looks like they cut it off you. The parts that weren't scorched from the blast, that is."

"Yeah." Don chose not to rub the areas on his chest where some of the scorch marks had gotten a little too close. The redness would fade, the docs had told him, but they would be painful during the healing process, and they'd given him some ointment to help. "What about Walker?"

"They let him go home last night," David reminded him. "He wasn't as close as you to the blast. He's planning on doing some desk work today, heading up the group researching those EPA guys."

"Maybe I should join him—"

"Maybe you should take it easy for another day, like the doctors told you to." David cut him off. "Colby and I will keep you posted on any developments."

Don dug in the plastic sack. "Where is—here it is." He pulled out his cell, glancing at it before slipping it into his pocket. Then he hurriedly pulled it out, realizing what he'd seen. "Hey, somebody left a message. It's from Charlie," he clarified, looking at the tiny screen. "Hold up, guys. Maybe he has an answer. It's from yesterday afternoon," he added, tapping to get to the proper access point. "Must have been just after I…"

His face went white.

"Don?" Colby stepped forward.

Don fumbled with the button to put the tiny box on speaker phone. Charlie's voice emerged, tinny through the small speaker.

"Don…help…"


	9. That Was A Lie

Col. Caruthers tried to wrest Charlie's laptop out of Colby's hands. "This is national security; the chemical formula is inside, along with the code. I'm taking charge of that computer. I can have it flown back to Washington so that my experts can extract the information."

Colby snorted. "Are you crazy? Who do you think can crack Charlie's computer?"

"We have some of the finest—"

Colby stuck out his jaw. "Charlie _is_ one of the finest," he informed her, "or don't your people talk to the NSA? Your people won't be able to open the first layer for at least a week."

_And we don't have a week_, Don thought bleakly.

They were back at FBI Headquarters. Don had flatly refused to go home, and adrenaline was doing a fine job of keeping him on his feet.

Slowly the details trickled in: the last time Charlie had been seen was by Don, when Charlie had announced that he was going out of town overnight. No one had seen him since, and CalSci was scrambling to cover his classes, which meant that Charlie had expected to be back before this.

Walker was using his LAPD resources. "We've got a bead on his car, Eppes," he told the group, focusing on Don. "He's got one of those tracker things on his vehicle, and we're tracing it. Somewhere up north, it looks like…Wait a sec. The data's coming in now." He looked up. "What's your brother doing in Bakersfield?"

"I didn't know he was going to Bakersfield," Don said. "He was talking about something one of his students was researching, but I didn't think it was Bakersfield."

"It had something to do with SW Chemicals," Colby put in. "Remember? He didn't want to help on this case, said because he'd worked for them before it would compromise the case."

"So what's the connection between SW Chemicals and Bakersfield?" Don asked.

Walker held up his hand, transmitting more information from the voice on the other end of the phone line. "Eppes, your brother's car was found abandoned at the edge of town, stripped. Looks like he got mugged, and the car stolen." More listening to the phone. "The Bakersfield boys say that they don't have any John Does at their hospital, and no bodies have turned up."

"Can they lift any fingerprints from the car?"

"They're doing that right now, Eppes. Their technology ain't up to your fancy standards, so they're sending 'em to you to run."

"Colby, put a rush job on it."

"Done." Colby moved.

Walker kept going. "You were the last to talk to him, Eppes. He say where he was going?"

"No." It almost killed Don to admit that. "Just something to do with some research for a student." He frowned. "He was working on his whiteboard," he mused. He came to a decision. "I need to see Charlie's office. There may be a clue there as to where he went."

"I'll drive." Caruthers reached for her keys.

"Better than that." Don stopped her. "David's still at Charlie's office, right?"

It took only seconds for Don to reach the other FBI agent, and even less time for David to snap and send a picture of Charlie's whiteboard through the miracle of cellular telephone technology. It took longer to transfer the picture onto a larger screen so that the agents in Don's cubicle could see it.

Most of the whiteboard was taken up by numbers and Greek symbols, and it looked like gibberish to Don and the others. Caruthers looked grimly for sections of the chemical formula that she'd given to Charlie, relaxing only when she couldn't find anything to suggest that the formula had been compromised.

Don himself concentrated on the letters, knowing that the numbers would mean less than nothing to him. This was Charlie's whiteboard, the place where he did things that had little to no security needs. His brother might have been absent-minded, but Charlie had an acute awareness of the hypersensitivity of some of his work, and those things tended to stay under some sort of security code where the average person couldn't get to them. Caruthers's formula was safe inside Charlie's laptop. The stuff on the whiteboard would be related to Charlie's student's work—and would lead them to where Charlie was.

SW Chemicals. The name was traced onto one corner. Underneath was the inscription 'Chadford'. Don pointed. "That mean anything to anybody?"

Walker frowned. "Little place up north, in the mountains. Pretty good skiing in the area. Little hole in the wall. I usually drive through it when I head up that way. Not much to stop for."

David's voice came through the speaker phone from Charlie's office. "He's also got the name Chadford written on a piece of paper on his desk. Nothing else, just the name."

But Colby had a strange look on his face. "I know that name, Don."

"You do?" Don pounced.

Caruthers too pushed in. "You've been working the Vince Zelakis angle. Any connection to him? Where are your files?"

"No, not to him. I think." Colby's brain was working overtime, trying to remember. "Maybe. Wait a sec."

"Colby?"

"Not Zelakis. His girlfriend. What was her name? Susan Whitehold." Colby still struggled, and pitched his voice to carry into the phone. "David, you come up with anything?"

"No. Wait a sec. You said Susan Whitehold? The whole Mother Earth thing?"

It clicked. Don could all but see the light bulb go off over Colby's head. "Chadford was one of the places that she mentioned when she was complaining about SW Chemicals. Remember, David? You asked her about protests, anything with SW Chemicals? Chadford was one of the places that she mentioned."

"That's it." They had a target, and Don was ready to move. "How far away is it?"

"Wait a minute, Eppes," Caruthers put in, her hands still on Charlie's laptop. "I'm all for charging out to rescue your brother, but you're forgetting the bigger picture. We still have a national security issue here." She ticked off her fingers. "One: we still haven't identified where the next shipment with the code is going to. Two: we don't even know what the next chunk of code looks like, and three: SW Chemicals is scheduled to release several shipments with their invoices tomorrow afternoon. We don't have _time_ to rescue your brother."

"We can shut down SW Chemicals," Walker reminded her. "No shipments, no invoices, no code going out."

"In which case, our unknown spy slips out of the country. He'll figure that his cover is about to be blown, and escape with the rest of the formula for sale to the highest bidder," Colby pointed out. "No good, Walker."

"Which means that we need Charlie," Don said grimly. He indicated the laptop in Caruthers's hands. "The answer is there, and only _Charlie_ can get it out. Unless you have a better solution, colonel?" He looked around. "Somebody get me a map. We're going to Chadford."

* * *

><p>Thirsty. So thirsty.<p>

The stream not three yards away sounded wonderful, with crystal clear water tumbling over rocks rubbed smooth by centuries of flowing water.

Didn't matter. The stuff was contaminated by the blue slime seeping from the waste facility up the hill.

If Charlie could get to the stream, he'd be between a rock and a hard place. He could slake his thirst, but the chemicals in the water would poison him as surely as they'd poisoned the forest around him.

Didn't matter. Charlie couldn't move the three yards to get to the stream.

* * *

><p>Walker got part of the answer for them as they pulled into the parking lot in front of the town hall of Chadford and got out of the two vehicles. He closed up his cell phone. "Just heard from Bakersfield, Eppes. They apprehended the guy who car-jacked your brother's car, nailed him with the prints they sent you. He said he found the car abandoned about six miles outside of Bakersfield. Nobody in it."<p>

"Nobody around?"

"Nobody," Walker confirmed. "You think maybe we should bypass Chadford and head on up to Bakersfield?"

"No." There was no reason to say no, and every reason to investigate the site where Charlie's car had been left. By rights they should hit the sirens and head out at top speed. But Don's gut was screaming at him. Here, in Chadford, lay the answer. He knew that as surely as he knew the back of his hand.

"You sure, Eppes?"

"Yeah. Have the Bakersfield police do the investigation, have them transfer any evidence to my office." It was the best he was going to do right now.

He felt better, although not by much. Don had napped on the drive up, demanding that his body reduce the adrenaline flow in order to heal. David had taken the wheel, with Colby and Caruthers in a second car. Don hauled himself out of the car upon arrival in Chadford, staggering a moment before his energy kicked back in. Caffeine, he thought. One cup, and he'd be functioning at the level he needed to.

No time for that. Don led the team into the town hall, noting the lack of personnel and the empty offices all around. Not that he'd expected anything different: Chadford, from the data that they'd pulled together in the seconds before they'd left L.A., was a small tourist trap that boasted all of six hundred people as permanent residents. There wasn't much governing that needed to occur for a small population like that. They had a mayor or something similar, a clerk to actually do the work, and a couple of police types whose primary mission in life was to track down missing two year olds in the woods before the wolves and bears got them. During tourist season, Don knew, the police force would swell by about another dozen seasonal helpers to tote out injured skiers and hikers.

All calls to Charlie's cell phone were now going directly to voicemail. The electronic marvel wasn't even making a pretense that there was someone interested in picking up the call. Don couldn't help himself; he kept trying, hoping that there would miraculously be a real live voice on the other end. They knew that Charlie's call for help came from somewhere in this area—they could track it through the nearest cell tower—but without a live call to triangulate, that was as close as they were going to get.

The mayor was a man by the name of Evan Pantini, and the first thing that Don noticed about him was that he was in a wheelchair. It didn't make much difference; the town hall was progressive for a community of this size and had already put in ramps and other devices to make life easier for those with alternate locomotion. Don had no doubt that the mayor was a major influence in such matters. There were doubtless other things that Don would have looked at if he'd had the time, but he and his team had more pressing matters.

Don presented a picture of Charlie to Mayor Pantini. "Eppes, FBI. My team," he introduced the group. Getting specific as to different departments could wait. "Have you seen this man?"

Pantini squinted at the photo. It was a good one, one that Charlie had had taken for some award. "He was here yesterday. What's he done?"

_What's he done? He's gone missing again, just like he did when he was six and again at eight and got me into trouble with Mom and Dad both times. Now it's with the Federal government. You see a pattern here?_

"We need to find him," Caruthers said, glossing over the reason. "Is he here now?"

"No." Pantini shook his head. "He came here looking for information about SW Chemicals."

Don played it close to the vest. "Here? SW Chemicals have a manufacturing plant up here?"

A scowl replaced the welcoming smile on Pantini's face. "We should be so lucky. No, the bastards erected a waste storage facility just outside of town where we can't touch 'em. They're killing the place—and us." Pantini took on a cool tone. "What's your purpose in coming here, Special Agent Eppes? I'm asking this as mayor of Chadford."

"That's classified," Caruthers told him. "This is a need-to-know operation."

Don flashed her an irritated glare. This was taking things too far. "Charlie came up here to do some research for one of his students. She lived here."

"Kate Tierney," Pantini inserted.

"Right." Don hadn't known the name. "She asked him for help. That's why Charlie was here. We need him for a different case."

"Then your coming here has nothing to do with SW Chemicals?"

"Not exactly," Don improvised.

Not buying it. "What, exactly?" Pantini asked, keeping his tone chilly. "Understand, Agent Eppes, that SW Chemicals is not too popular around here. They've managed to successfully stall us in court and have blocked us at the State level from forcing them to clean up their toxic waste facility. If you're working on their behalf, then you and I have nothing more to discuss."

_Inspiration_. "Let's just say that if we find this man, SW Chemicals will quickly become a much more law-abiding place," Don said.

Pantini raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Really. My word of honor as a Federal agent."

"Hmph." Pantini considered. "All right. He was here yesterday, doing some research in the files. He apparently found everything that he needed, because he left. I didn't see him after that."

"Which way did he go?" Walker asked.

"I didn't see him go," Pantini said. "I assumed that he headed back down the mountain, back the way he came."

"Not north, toward Bakersfield?" David slipped in.

Pantini shrugged. "If he did, I didn't see him."

Walker had some other thoughts. "You get much crime around here?"

"Not unless it's tourist season," Pantini returned promptly.

"No car-jacking, anything like that? This on a drug route?"

"No. Why?" Then the mayor's eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. You said your name is Eppes. Any relation to the man who was here?"

The topic came up all too frequently, and usually with a side helping of _suspicion of nepotism_. "My brother," Don replied evenly, "and a valuable consultant to the Federal government."

It was impossible to tell what was whirling on inside the mayor's mind. "I see. I wish I could help you, but I didn't see him leave."

That was a lie. Why would the mayor lie about something as straightforward as that?


	10. Under Attack

Walker pulled over the two vehicles less than a mile out of town. "You keep on headin' up to the waste storage place, Eppes," he directed. "Leave me this vehicle, and I'll join you shortly."

"You caught the same vibes that I did."

"That I did, Eppes. And I'm not liking it one bit. I think I'm going to hoof it back to the edge of town, see what I can see."

Don started to unbuckle his seatbelt. "I'll come with you."

"No, you head on up to that waste storage," Walker stopped him. "Pantini was telling the truth when he said that Charlie left town. He meant it."

Don scowled. "I don't like leaving you alone."

Walker fixed him with a dry glare. "Eppes, the day I can't take care of myself in a town filled with hicks like this is the day I'll turn in my badge." He tapped his pocket where his cell lived. "I'll keep a running commentary as to what I see."

"All right," Don said, "but no chances, hear me? We don't have time to be hauling your ass out of whatever trouble you find. Colby, give the keys to Walker. You're riding with us."

David pulled out onto the road, the car loaded with Federal agents. Don couldn't help but turn around, and watched Walker put the second car into a K-turn and move closer to the edge of town. The last thing Don saw was Walker getting out of the second vehicle and sliding into the forest outside of the town limit.

He turned his attention back to the road ahead. How had Charlie's car gotten to Bakersfield without him? Where was the man? Was he actually in Bakersfield, or somewhere close by? Don could rule out a car accident; the Bakersfield police reported the Prius stripped but not otherwise damaged. Had Charlie gotten lost, turned around, was driving in that direction because he didn't know any better? That didn't answer the question of why he wasn't answering his phone, or where he was.

No, in his gut Don knew that Charlie had gone to the SW Chemical waste storage facility. There simply wasn't a better explanation, not if Don knew Charlie. His kid brother, once he got hold of a problem, couldn't let go.

A thought struck him. "Colby."

"Yes, Don?"

"Those two from the EPA, the ones whose initials match the 'consulting firms' that SW Chemicals transferred money to."

"Right. Couple of low level government types."

Oh so casually. "Either one of them ever handle a gun?"

Colby stiffened. "I'll find out."

"I'll check for a military background." Caruthers pulled out her own cell.

David kept his attention on the road, dodging the worst of the potholes. "You're thinking that one of them may be our sniper? Remini's murderer?"

"I want to make certain that they're not."

"I've got the first," Caruthers called out. "Zachariah Roberts, lives in Bakersfield. Field agent for the EPA; doesn't say what territory he covers."

"I'll bet I can guess," David muttered, not bothering to keep it under his breath.

"Army, served in Iraq, with the 303rd. Listen to this: he tried out for the Rangers."

"He wash out?" Colby was hopeful.

"Yes."

"Good." It was clear: Colby didn't want anyone sullying the Rangers' good name.

"He had superior records in marksmanship." That was why Caruthers was bringing it up.

"So he could be our sniper. The shot from the Lyonsgate to the board room of SW Chemicals wasn't a hard one to make." Colby paused. "Here's the other one: Victoria Nance, also a field agent for the EPA. Nothing to indicate that she's anything special with a rifle."

"On the other hand, they're both field agents, used to going into the hills," David pointed out, keeping his eyes on the empty country road ahead. "They both probably have a fair bit of expertise, just on the job. And as Colby said, that wasn't a tough shot to make, not with decent equipment."

Don came to a decision. "When we get to the waste storage place, park a good hundred yards down the road. We'll break out the gear, and go in loaded for bear. Got it? I don't want anyone getting hurt." _Anyone else_, he said to himself. _Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Charlie really is okay. Maybe he just got himself lost, is trying to find a way out. Maybe he's just lost on the hillside, forgot to mark a path to his car. Yeah, that's it. He lost his way to his car, and the car-jacker came by and hot-wired it out from underneath my stupid brother. That's the reason._

_So why doesn't Charlie answer his phone?_

_Because my stupid brother let it run out of juice._

_That's the rational explanation._

_So why doesn't it feel right?_

_Because it doesn't explain Charlie's call for help._

There was a change in the greenery on either side of the road as they approached the entrance to the SW Chemicals storage facility. Every one of them saw it, felt it, knew it in their bones. The leaves were curled up into sickly dead rolls, and the strands of greenery that should have been lushly growing in the light afforded by the road were mere yellow and pale limp shoots that couldn't muster enough strength to reach for the sky. Sunlight pierced down through branches that ought to have been shading the road, but weren't.

It was clear that this patch of land was under attack.

Colby glanced around uneasily. "This isn't right," he muttered to himself.

Don spared him a glance. Colby Granger had grown up surrounded by mountain forests, and this was hitting him where it hurt. "Pull over," Don ordered, his voice harsher than he'd intended. "Let's gear up."

They put on their armor in silence, every one of them affected by the dying forest around them. What the hell was going on? Don wondered at the sight. The EPA ought to have been all over this, yet the facility looked deserted and forgotten. He handed out the rifles along with plenty of ammo. Nothing large would be roaming through this neck of the woods but just having the rifles to defend themselves with would help to allay the fears and the hair sticking up on the backs of their necks.

Don resorted to hand signals, wanting the silence. There was a brief struggle for command from Lt. Col. Caruthers, which Don won: these were his people. He knew them. Caruthers did not.

_Colby: point._ The man nodded, and ghosted off to run the perimeter. David he assigned to rear guard with himself taking the lead. Don didn't care that Caruthers was annoyed at being stuck in the middle; to him, she was the unknown quantity and until he had a better handle on how she could react, he wanted her in a place where he could keep an eyeball on her.

His cell vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see the text from Colby: _clear_. Still, Don made it a cautious approach, listening for any signs of habitation.

Too, he looked for anything suggesting that his brother had been here, and he found it: footprints. There was no attempt to hide, no effort to sneak up. The footprints were of a smallish man, and the size of the print approximating that of his brother. Given the circumstances, Don was willing to bet that Charlie had been here. Charlie himself could figure out the odds for the bet if he wanted. Don would be satisfied with 'pretty good'.

It felt like they were being watched, and Don finally realized what it was: vultures. Big ones, with ugly heads, perched in the treetops waiting for something—or someone—to die so that they could feast. There wasn't much in this caricature of a forest for the carrion eater to pick up, and Don decided not to contribute to the vultures' diet on a personal level.

There was no one inside the waste facility. Getting inside was a joke; the lock had rusted through long ago and the door was already hanging open from equally rusty hinges. Don avoided stepping on the trail of blue slime that trickled out over the transom and off down the hill. It was obvious that the filth had been meandering downhill for quite a long time. Maybe the EPA had been ignoring this place for whatever reason sounded good at the time. Don would see that something was done; a pungent phone call, at least.

Inside was no better. There were stacks of metal drums, three and four high with several rusting through, which was where the blue slime originated. Don cautiously eased the safety back onto his weapon, sensing the others doing the same. He didn't know what was inside these drums—the formula was hand-written on faded paper in a small notebook on a table just inside. Maybe Caruthers could hazard a guess, even if Don couldn't—but the thought of discharging a firearm in the vicinity brought up too vivid recollections of failing to breathe when a bomb filled with noxious chemicals was triggered next to his car door.

Bottom line: Charlie was not here. Their goal was to retrieve Charlie so they could get the next chunk of formula masquerading as an invoice and thus apprehend the traitor who was selling out the country. Don followed his brother's footprints out of the building, watching them turn to follow the blue slime. Why had the man done that? Why couldn't he have just gotten back in his car and gone home and saved Don all this worry?

Colby joined them, bringing up the rear. "No tracks," he whispered. "No one else here. Just Charlie." Which meant that Colby too believed that the footprints belonged to Charlie. Just one man, one set of footprints and, Don recalled, only one recent set of tire tracks.

The problem was, there was a set of footprints walking toward the storage facility, but none returning to where Charlie's car had been parked. Charlie's steps had taken him toward the sound of the brook, following the trail of blue slime.

Don's cell vibrated once again, and he pulled it out. Still no one around, so he chanced it. "Eppes," he whispered.

"Eppes, you're never gonna believe who's rabbiting," came Walker's gravelly voice.

Maybe he could. Don Eppes didn't know all that many people in Chadford. "The mayor?"

"You got it in one. He just finished tossing a bunch of crap into the trunk of his car. Now he's putting his wheelchair in there, too. Damn, he can walk! Not well, mind you. He's usin' the side of the car to prop himself up." Pause. "You want I should tail him?"

"Can you do it without being seen?"

"On these roads? Probably not." Another pause. "Uh, Eppes?"

"What?"

"He just tossed a pretty fine lookin' piece of hardware on the seat beside him. I think I'm going to withdraw my offer to tail him. I'd rather not get my ass shot off, if you don't mind."

Both David and Colby were waving for attention. "Don," David got in first, "the Lyonsgate. Those marks on the carpet—"

"It's the reason we didn't find any footprints—"

"—belonged to someone in a wheelchair!"

"Hold it!" Don held up his hands, pulling away from the cell and turning on the speaker phone. "I believe you guys, but if it's Pantini, how do we connect him to smuggling the code? He doesn't work for SW Chemicals; he hates their guts. If he and Charlie are right, he's in that chair because of what SW Chemicals did here. All of that means that he can't get to the codes or the invoices." He waved at the storage facility, taking in the corrosion.

Caruthers walked up from where the tire tracks from Charlie's car were. "I can't be certain, but it looks like the narrow tread of a wheelchair, just a couple inches from the tire tracks," she informed them. "The measurements look right I say we bring in Pantini for questioning, at the very least. Tell Walker to pull him in."

"I heard that. You tell Miss Ramrod that I'll bring Pantini in when he ain't near his rifle."

"If you're afraid—"

"Damn straight, I'm afraid. I ain't stupid, neither. He's gone, Eppes; dust in the distance."

Don had to agree with Walker on this one. "Notify Customs, Walker. Put his name and picture on the wire; don't let him out of the country. Put out an APB, but tell them to be gentle—and careful. We don't know for certain that he's our man. We can't arrest him on the basis of sitting in a wheelchair."

"You got it, Eppes. Out."

Caruthers glared at him. "He's running."

"Maybe, maybe not. He could be going to meet with more townspeople. We just handed him a lot of information about SW Chemicals."

"You really believe that crap?"

"This isn't a situation where we can just haul people off, colonel," Don reminded her. "I have to build a case, and that means air-tight evidence."

Caruthers set her jaw. "He killed George, and he may have killed your brother. What more do you want? A signed confession?"

"What I want," Don retorted, "is a better case than a man in a wheelchair getting into his car." There was something _off_ about what the DoD officer had said. "Can we get back to our goal of tracking down the man with the code?"

"Be my guest," she choked out angrily, turning away.

Enough. They didn't have time for this; they needed to find Charlie. "Spread out," he directed. "Colby, uphill, and I'll take down. David and Caruthers, you follow the trail. Take it slow, and be careful. Just because we think it's Pantini, doesn't mean that it is."

Charlie's footsteps weren't hard to follow. The brush had been disturbed, and the tracks were still evident for even a cub scout to follow.

Don heard the babbling of a brook in the distance, felt thirsty as soon as he heard it. If they weren't so close to the leaking storage facility, he would have arrowed over there for a drink.

Thirsty, but not stupid. There were a lot of contaminated streams throughout the country, and Don knew better than to trust one based on how pretty it looked. The slender line of blue goop from the storage facility only cemented his decision.

It didn't matter. Charlie's footsteps were taking the same path, following the blue slime trail toward the brook several hundred yards away—there was a lump along the dirt path, and it didn't look like a rock. Don broke into a run before he realized what he was doing.

"Don!" David called out.

"It's Charlie!" Don didn't stop.

The other three let him, turning around instantly to form a partial barrier against anything—or anyone—who might approach while Don was otherwise occupied.

Don didn't care. He slid to his knees beside his brother, terrified. "Charlie?"

No response. Don felt for a pulse along the side of Charlie's neck, whole-heartedly panicking when he couldn't feel one. No, there it was, faint and fast. Breathing, too; shallow, rapid, through the mud that covered his face.

The stream was three yards away, and Don didn't trust it. Instead, he pulled out his handkerchief and wetted it with some of the water from his canteen. Gently, he wiped away some of the mud from his brother's face. "Charlie? Charlie, can you hear me?"

"He's been shot!" David exclaimed. "Look at his shoulder, Don!"

Don felt an icy cold grip him. David was right; someone had shot his brother! Someone had shot the brother that he was supposed to watch over, the one he was supposed to keep out of trouble.

_Get a grip_, he told himself. _Charlie's a grown man, and this isn't your fault. Charlie came up here to research stuff for his student, not because of your case._

_But what if trouble followed, and took advantage of your carelessness?_

"We need to get him out of here." David looked around as if expecting an ambulance to materialize out of thin air.

Don got hold of himself. "Caruthers, get the medical kit from the car. Colby, get on the phone to Walker. Tell him to get a chopper into the air right now. We'll get Charlie air-lifted to L.A., with guards."

"He's in shock." David too felt for a pulse. "Give me your canteen, Don. I'll see if I can clean off some of the mud. I don't dare use any from the stream. How long do you think he's been out here?"

"Too long," Don said grimly. "Pantini said he drove out last evening, and there's no reason to think otherwise—"

A yell cut him off, a feminine shriek of rage from the direction of the SUV. More: there was the roar of a car engine, and it didn't sound as though it came from the FBI vehicle that Don had commandeered until his own Suburban was back on its proverbial feet.

Sharp cracks of sound: gunfire!

"We're under attack!" Colby instantly identified the noise.

"Go!" Colby was closest to the scene, and Don and David already had hands on Charlie. There was no time for discussion; Don and David hauled the limp body of Don's brother under the dead brush for as much cover as they could manage.

More gunfire. Don strove to see where it was coming from, couldn't see that far through the dead trees. Dammit, he had two people under direct attack, and another wounded here in his arms! He needed back up, dammit!

"Incoming!" That was Colby! What the—

The world exploded.


	11. What's the Connection?

Don picked himself up from where he'd instinctively thrown himself across Charlie's unmoving form. A quick check for a pulse—yes, still there. Breathing, too; that was a bonus.

"Colby!" he yelled. "Colby! Caruthers!"

Don knew exactly what had happened. It had happened once before to him, back when he was chasing jumpers back in the Badlands of New Mexico. A meth still had blown, and had taken out the entire house.

The storage facility wasn't a house, but it was still filled with chemicals and someone had demonstrated that those particular chemicals had the capacity to go boom in a spectacular fashion.

"Stay here with Charlie," he told David. "Don't let anyone get to him."

"I won't."

Another roar of an engine, receding into the distance. Don realized that the attacking vehicle was escaping. Escaping, or just leaving? Did Don Eppes have a dead agent, and a dead DoD colonel? Was there—?

Staggering figure: "Colby!"

"Don!" Colby almost collapsed into his arms before straightening himself. "They came out of nowhere! Tossed a bomb inside—look!"

The waste storage facility was gone. All that was left was a hole in the ground with shrapnel as the remnants of the rusting drums. Smoke drifted upward.

"Caruthers?" Don had another team member to be worried about.

"Inside."

"Inside the building?" Don was horrified. She could never have survived…

"The SUV," Colby gasped. "She was getting the med kit. Shoved her inside." His knees tried to give out.

Don pushed the man against the side of the rental SUV, helping him to slide down to the ground. The SUV too had been slewed around in the blast, the tires blown out from the concussion. He couldn't see Caruthers inside the vehicle; the windows were covered with soot and mud. No sound, either; had the woman survived? Don dug his fingers under the back hatch and hauled.

The hatch at first refused to give, then slowly inched open. The last few inches flew up, and Don peered inside.

Caruthers was there, doubled over and retching, her gun by her side.

"You hurt?" Don demanded.

She shook her head, trying to regain control of herself. She waved him off. Hurt, yeah, but good enough to keep going.

They had to move. The other vehicle could come back at any time, looking to finish what they'd started, and Don now had three wounded to protect and only David still on his feet besides Don himself. Question number one: would this SUV still run?

Not well. Even if the engine turned over, there were four blown out tires.

Don didn't care. They could ride the rims, and still make progress. "Colby, did you get hold of Walker?"

"Cavalry's on the way, Don." Colby's eyes were closed, but the mouth—and the brain—seemed to function. "Charlie?"

"Still breathing," Don replied grimly. "Can you stand?"

"Watch me." Taking a deep breath, Colby reached upward for the handle to the door of the SUV, intending to haul himself upright.

The door handle broke loose in his hand and dumped him back onto the dirt. Colby stared at it from his place sitting on his backside on the hard-packed ground. "Well, crap."

Don couldn't help it; he started to laugh. It was a little too long and a little too hysterical, but it was a laugh and it restored him. "C'mon, Colby. Inside."

"Don!" came from several yards away.

"David!" Don gave up on Colby for the moment in favor of the pair who were approaching.

David had somehow gotten Charlie onto his feet, his good arm hanging over David's shoulder and barely able to put one foot in front of the other. That didn't matter to Don. What did matter was that there was life in his brother's eyes, and that he was alive.

Charlie's mouth worked, though nothing came out.

Don shoved his hands under Charlie's arms, supporting his weight. "It's okay, Charlie. I've got you."

Charlie sagged limply against him, unable to do anything more.

"Get the door open, David," Don directed. "Let's get him inside the SUV." Together they wrestled Charlie onto the back seat, wincing at every moan that came out of him. Colby was next: less noise but more flesh to strap in with seatbelts.

It took too long, and every minute that passed Don expected to hear the returning roar of another vehicle coming back to finish what they'd started, but David got the engine to running.

"Get in," David told him. "Let's see how far this thing will take us."

It was the worst ride Don had ever had. Without tires, the SUV rocked up and down so that Don was willing to toss his cookies just like Caruthers in back. It had to be hell on Charlie and Colby.

Don's cell vibrated—he'd forgotten that he'd left the sound off. "Eppes."

"Special Agent Eppes? LAPD Chopper One. That you down there, coming out onto the road? Blink your headlights twice."

"David?"

"Don't think the headlights work, Don."

"Got that, Chopper One?"

"Roger that. Wave your arm out the window."

"That I can do." Don obliged, pumping his arm up and down.

"We are above you, Special Agent Eppes. No place to land this bird around here, so we'll send down the elevator."

"Good enough for us, Chopper One." Don turned to David. "Stop the car, David. Walker came through."

"With pleasure." David didn't have to turn off the engine; it stalled.

* * *

><p>"I got you, Chuck. We're going to get you to a hospital."<p>

_Sounds good to me, but moving is a little beyond my abilities right now. Remember that time when you were twelve and playing football with the neighborhood kids, and you got crunched and you were trying not to cry and I made fun of you? I am _so_ sorry about that._

"David, give me a hand, here. Grab his belt to lift him. I don't dare try to move his arm."

_Thanks. I don't dare try to move my arm, either. It hurts quite enough as it is. Ow!_

"Sorry, buddy. Look, Charlie, we're going to lie you down in this basket and strap you in. Can you hear me, Charlie?"

"I think he's beyond hearing anything, Don. Let's hustle."

* * *

><p>Don stared at the retreating helicopter until it vanished from view. <em>Well, that's that. You've done what you can.<em> There hadn't been any room for him in the chopper, and all the arguments in the world wouldn't have changed that. Don had had to be satisfied with the promise to get protection onto his brother as soon as the helicopter touched down on the heli-pad.

"He's going to be all right, Don." David moved in on him.

"Yeah." Don mouthed the correct response. He suddenly felt very tired, wrung out. He looked around, not taking in what he was seeing. Four agents here with only mud to show for their efforts. Colby was still blinking dazedly—_got to get you checked for concussion, my friend_—and Caruthers lying on the back seat looking like any movement at all would cause her to fall over. Even David looked less than pristine.

Walker drove up in his own vehicle, pulling off to the side of the road next to the totaled hulk that used to be an FBI rental car. He gave Don's ride a long look. "Nice going, Eppes. What is this, two SUVs in two days? You going for some kind of record, here?"

"Let me behind the wheel of yours, Walker, and we'll see."

"Not a chance, Eppes. Not a chance. I _like_ my vehicle." Walker took a closer look at the figures crawling out of the ruined hulk, and gentled his voice. "Let's see about getting everyone back to civilization. Sinclair, you and me, let's wrestle your partner into the back seat. He's big enough that I don't want him falling on me. Eppes, you see about Col. Caruthers."

"I'm okay," Colby protested, and Don wished that the man sounded like he meant it. _It would help if you could keep your eyes open, Colby_.

Don stopped. There was something in his vicinity that he needed to notice, something pertinent to the investigation.

"Don? What is it?"

It clicked. Don veered from his path toward the back of the SUV and Col. Caruthers.

Three mailboxes, all tacked onto a stout wooden post. The actual drive to the homes was across the road, little more than a dirt path with two ruts to show the cars where to put their tires. Two of the mailboxes showed signs of recent use. They were free of cobwebs, and the hinges on the doors looked fresh and shiny with wear, the lacquer rubbed off the metal in spots.

Not so the third mailbox. The door was open, and more than one crawling thing had made its home inside. There was paint chipping off, and had been for some time, but that wasn't what had attracted Don's attention.

It was the name on the mailbox: Zelakis. The paint from the final 's' was half worn away by the elements.

David approached. "Don, what is it—oh."

"Yeah. Oh." Don turned to face his agent. "I think the connection between our case and Mayor Pantini just got a little bit closer. Why didn't we spot this earlier?"

"Good question," David started to say, then interrupted himself. "Probably for the same reason that SW Chemicals got away with their storage facility. This place is beyond town limits. Any search wouldn't have shown Zelakis to come from Chadford, because he lived just outside."

* * *

><p>Good thing his father was out of town, Don reflected. There would have to be a carefully edited version of why his youngest son had his arm in a sling.<p>

They were a mess, and that was after everyone had had a chance to clean up. He'd been right; Colby was diagnosed with a mild concussion from the blast, but the man had showered and shaved and demanded to come back. Technically the agent wasn't on duty—just visiting a certain math whiz in the hospital—but David hadn't had the heart to leave him behind. David himself had informed Don that the clothes that David had worn during their previous assignment were now part of his trash and that he had had to spend over an hour cleaning the mud out of his rifle.

"_Dude," Colby had said, "you want to clean mine, too?"_

Caruthers had been kept overnight, stuck with needles and fluids and generally treated like gold, but she was here now, in Charlie's room, along with the rest of them. Don had tried to get more information about her condition, and had been rebuffed.

They dragged more chairs into Charlie's hospital room, using the time for an impromptu council of war, keeping their voices down in deference to the man in the hospital bed.

"Eppes," Walker said, lowering his backside onto one of the chairs, "you look like crap."

"Gee, thanks, Walker. I'll be sure to mention that in my report."

"What puzzles me," the LAPD officer continued as if Don hadn't spoken, "is how this case ain't falling together."

"What do you mean?" David asked.

"I mean, look at it. We got a sniper's corpse, and we got a code getting smuggled out in pieces." Walker indicated the sleeping man. "And it's still gonna get smuggled out if we don't get our collective ass in gear. How does blowin' up a waste storage facility figure into that? According to SW Chemicals, they ain't even storing left-overs from that particular chemical up in Chadford."

They all fell silent, trying and failing to come up with an answer that sounded reasonable.

"Somehow," Caruthers said grimly, "I don't think that they drove two hours out of L.A. with a bomb just to take us out. There are easier ways."

Don nodded. "I talked to Forensics first thing this morning. They found traces of a homemade bomb, not something that you'd expect from a lab like SW Chemicals. Whoever tossed it, they made it from common things you'd find around any average home. It was just their luck that the drums inside were flammable. _We_ were lucky," he added. "The fireball could have done a lot more damage." He shot a look straight at Caruthers. "There was a lot of soot on the SUV, outside of where you were."

She nodded soberly. "I felt the heat."

_If Colby hadn't closed the car door on you, you'd have been toast_.

Don moved on. "Homemade bomb suggests that they're getting rattled. They're not planning, like they used to. They'll make a mistake soon."

"But will it be soon enough?" David asked. He glanced at his watch. "The shipments go out this afternoon, at three. There's no way that we can search every one of the thousand invoices for the chunk of code. We don't even know what to look for."

"Yes, we do," offered a small and tired voice.

"Charlie!" Don jumped up out of his chair. "Buddy, are you okay?"

"Just fine," Charlie lied, trying to keep his eyes open. "I think…my arm hurts…"

David asked the question they were all waiting to hear. "Charlie, what were you doing at the storage facility?"

Charlie sighed. "Investigating."

"Investigating?" Don wanted to wring Charlie's neck. "Charlie, you were almost killed! What were you investigating?"

"My student," Charlie whispered. "She thought that the town's problems were caused by pollution from that storage facility. I was checking out her hypothesis."

"Which brings us right back 'round to my question," Walker put in from the back of the group. "What's the connection to Remini?"

For Don, it fell into place.

"There was no connection."

They stared at him. David cocked his head. "Come again? No connection?"

Don smiled, and it was not good to see. "But there is now."


	12. A DumbAss Idea

Don scowled at the back of Charlie's head through the corridor window. "I don't like it."

Colby nodded understandingly. "And I'm sure that if they'd wanted your opinion, they'd have asked for it."

"But they didn't, Eppes," Walker inserted. He considered. "For what it's worth, I think it's a dumb-ass idea, too."

They looked a lot better than when they'd crawled out of Walker's vehicle several hours ago, terrified that the man they'd gone to rescue was beyond help. Nobody could do anything about the cut on Caruthers's cheek or Colby's black eye that he'd received when the bomb blast slammed him against the SUV, but a series of hot showers had removed the worst of the repair needs. Clean clothes had supplied the rest.

Not enough. Don scowled again. Charlie was in the room across the hall in the SW Chemicals building, David and Caruthers looming over him, and Don—_and_ his handgun—was relegated to watching through a video camera into that room along with Colby and Walker. The conference room was one door down from the conference room where George Remini had lost his life. The yellow guard tape had finally been removed from the crime scene, and one look told Don that SW Chemicals had wasted no time in replacing the large glass window that had been shattered by the bullet. It now looked like each of the other conference rooms along the corridor, including the one that Charlie was working in.

This was _so_ not right. Charlie, the brother that he'd just risked his own ass to save thankyouverymuch, should have been continuing to sleep off his injuries in the hospital a few miles away. There was no reason why he couldn't do what he was doing from there, in between strong doses of morphine or whatever they were using for heavy duty pain-killers these days. There was no reason why the kid had to be sitting there in front of a table, trying not to jiggle his arm between the sling and the laptop keyboard and keep from falling over at the same time, just so that the whole of SW Chemicals could watch him take down the entire management of the company.

Worse, it was Don's own fault. If he hadn't been so smart to come up with the bare bones of the plan, Caruthers wouldn't have had the opportunity to call up her own bosses and neatly swipe the operation out from under the FBI. The military firepower had cowed Don's own boss into cooperation, so here they all were and only Caruthers was satisfied.

Charlie, too, came in for his share of the blame. Whoever told the man to admit, under the influence of drugs, that he could identify the suspect invoice faster than any computer? There were six potential permutations, he had said drowsily—what the hell was a 'permutation'? Sounded like a mad scientist's wet dream—and they could be located any of three places on the invoices' various number sequences. That meant eighteen potentials per invoice, multiplied by some thousand invoices—Don's head had started to hurt. By the time they'd set up the bank of computers with number recognition software and hardware, Charlie had muttered, the invoices with their associated shipments would be out the door and off to be sold at the nearest black market. That was when Lt. Col. Serena Caruthers, sensing pushback from the senior FBI team leader and the remainder of his team including the LAPD liaison, had called up some serious firepower from her own people to Make Things Happen at the local level.

Which was why Don and his team, under protest, had carted Charlie into the main headquarters of SW Chemicals to be carefully placed—in the most comfortable chair in the building, mind you. If he couldn't have his way, Don was going to use this as yet another protest—in front of the entire company of employees to ferret out the suspect invoice. There was a glass window to the conference room where people walking by could peer in to see the Genius At Work, speeding through the tall stack of invoices that Col. Caruthers had caused to be placed in front of him. The concept, as derived from Don's own far safer and more reasonable idea, was for Charlie to a) identify the invoice so that it wouldn't leave the building with the encoded chunk of formula and, more importantly, b) scare the bejeebers out of the perpetrator so that he Did Something Obvious and Stupid. The piece that Lt. Col. Caruthers and her bosses left out of Don's original plan was the 'doing this while safe in a hospital bed' part.

What if the code wasn't there? What if they'd made a horrendous mistake, and the invoice was already making its way to where ever the receiving end wanted? What if they had been too slow? The questions pelted Don's brain like the rain of shrapnel after the bomb at the waste storage facility.

Charlie, however, was as good as his word. He spent less than fifteen minutes with his own laptop to identify the next coded possibilities, then got down to work. Faster than any computer, he was scanning through the stack of invoices, glancing at each one and setting it aside as clean. On the other side of the table was a far smaller pile of invoices, ones that he'd pulled out as needing a longer look before deciding whether or not it contained the chunk of code. Don didn't like the way his brother looked: face pale, with beads of sweat at his hairline. There was still the hunger in the brown eyes, the thirst for elucidation, wanting to find the answer; that never left.

_Well, maybe it had, just for a little bit_, a tiny voice inside him said. _Not too much hunger for knowledge as they were hoisting him into the air to Chopper One, on his way to get a bullet dug out of his arm._

Don set that memory aside. It wasn't going to help, not under the present circumstances. At the moment, they were looking to flush out the suspect. Don's heart hardened. They had two cases going on: the illegal transfer of the formula, and Charlie's student's research showing that the chemical waste storage facility hadn't been kept up in exactly the best fashion. Both cases needed to be brought to a satisfactory conclusion.

Time to up the ante. Don rose from his chair, glancing at his watch. "I think I'll head down to the lobby," he told Colby and Walker.

"You want me to come with?" Walker was itching for some action, even if it was just a short stroll.

"Nah. Keep watching. See who looks the most nervous around Charlie." Don exited the room and walked down the hall, peering in through the glass window as he passed by. Charlie never took notice of his brother, but both Caruthers and David looked up to acknowledge his passing with nods.

The stairs would have assuaged his need for nervous exercise, but he couldn't quite stomach the thought of ten flights, even all downhill. Besides, he was expecting to meet someone and escort him upstairs.

The lobby was as empty as ever as Don stepped out of the elevator, but the guards at the front desk—two of them, now, instead of just one—fairly radiated a sense of nervousness. It was as if they knew that something was going down but were powerless to stop it.

_Got that right, guys._ Don suppressed a grimly satisfied smile. There wasn't anything that either guard could do about this. This little maneuver was about to increase the pressure on someone to break. He glanced at his watch once more, suddenly afraid that the man wouldn't show.

Then someone strode in through the front door and across the marble lobby floor to present himself at the front desk, a briefcase in his hand. "I'm here to see Norman Hathaway."

The guard stiffened. "Do you have an appointment, sir? Mr. Hathaway has some pressing concerns at the moment."

"He's about to have a few more," the man told him. He pulled out his identification. "Jake Stafford, California Environmental Protection Agency, Region Three." He tucked the identification away. "I will be heading up to the twelfth floor. You can tell Hathaway to meet me there."

Don stepped up. "Mr. Stafford?"

Stafford turned. "You're Special Agent Eppes? Charlie's brother?"

"That's right." Don extended his hand, and they shook. "Charlie thinks very highly of you."

"The feeling's mutual," Stafford returned with warmth. "You ready to get this done?"

"Let's go." Don led the way to the elevator.

The three administrative assistants—Don had yet to remember their names—looked apprehensive as the pair emerged from the elevator and marched down the hall. Not one picked up the phone, suggesting to Don that the warning calls had already been made to Norman Hathaway. One, the brunette, surreptitiously toggled her phone, and Don wondered if it was a signal to the people inside that trouble was just outside their door. Stafford flicked a short glance at her, perhaps expecting such a move. He was used to it, Don surmised. Charlie's friend wasn't a low level flunky. This was someone who got things done.

This was going to be good.

Stafford pushed in past the door to the inner office, not bothering with the three women outside.

Both Norman Hathaway and Jules Vorgen were present, pretending to be discussing a project. Hathaway looked up in carefully disguised displeasure. He focused on Don. "Agent Eppes. Can I help you?"

"Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Jake Stafford, of the EPA," Don said, equally disguising his own feelings, vindication uppermost.

"And how can SW Chemicals help you, Mr. Stafford?" Vorgen's accent was a little thicker at the moment. There wasn't any surprise in the man, Don noted. That had vanished shortly after a phone call from the security guards in the lobby, to be replaced by sullen calculation._ Gonna be tough to weasel out of this one, guys._

Stafford placed his briefcase on the desk and withdrew a small vial of dirt. He set the vial on the table, and then paired it up with a second vial filled with a clear liquid. "You can explain why the ground around the SW Chemicals waste storage facility outside Chadford, California, is grossly contaminated."

Hathaway had the thespianism to look alarmed. "There was an explosion there just yesterday. It likely—"

Stafford cut him off. "The waterway nearby shows evidence of chronic contamination, pollution that goes back for some ten years." He tossed some papers onto the desk beside the vials. "A signed confession from former EPA field agent Victoria Nance."

"Former?" Vorgen caught the reference.

"Ms. Nance has tendered her resignation and admitted to receiving a bribe from SW Chemicals to overlook any irregularities from the waste storage facility."

The alarm was turning real. "I had no knowledge—" Hathaway started.

"Really?" Don asked, keeping it cool. "Do you want to stick to that line, Hathaway? We checked your phone records. You made a call to EPA field agent Zachariah Roberts a few hours before the explosion at the waste facility took place. Roberts had expertise in explosives, from his military career. The Forensics team who served the search warrant on Mr. Roberts's home just reported that they found bomb-making materials similar to what was used on the waste facility. You might want to call your legal team," he suggested. "You're likely going to need them."

* * *

><p>This was not consistent with the hypothesis. All the information Charlie had suggested that only a single invoice was generated each time with a small piece of the chemical formula which was then sent overseas with whatever product the invoice demanded. The coded numbers were then given to the black marketeer, according to Don, who then presumably decoded it. Once the entire formula had been transmitted, the formula would then be sold to the highest bidder.<p>

Charlie, however, had isolated no fewer than eight invoices with the suspect code. Coincidence? Hardly. Charlie would have bought two such duplications, possibly even three, but not eight. This suggested an alteration in the modus operandi of the person sending the invoices. Someone had changed from sending things one at a time to several.

There was a plastic cup of coffee on the table next to him, and Charlie made a face. The liquid had long since gone cold, and he hadn't touched it. He stretched his one good arm, needing to inhale additional molecules of oxygen with which to supply his brain, carefully not moving the other. He winced; even that small movement pulled on the damaged flesh.

At least the narcotics had worn off, he realized. They had initially interfered with his ability to scan the suspect invoices, but that problem had disappeared within the first few minutes of work. The excitement of the chase had taken over. _You may have your real life perpetrators, brother mine, but that can't compare with the feeling of pouncing on the right answer. And my suspects don't shoot back_. His arm twinged irritably, trying to refute his reasoning by pointing out that Charlie had received his injury in pursuit of his own research.

Charlie looked out through the large glass window of the room, letting the sunlight wash over him. The light from outside was better for illuminating the invoices, better than the tepid light from the fluorescent bulbs above him. There were large buildings across the street, one an upscale hotel, but none blocked the afternoon sun.

"You got something?" It was David. The FBI agent set down his own coffee cup, the liquid almost completely gone. He blinked, also stretching.

"Sort of," Charlie admitted. "It's not quite fitting the pattern."

Col. Caruthers too came alive. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," and Charlie gestured to the scanned copies of the previous invoices that the murder victim, George Remini, had collected. They were patched onto Charlie's laptop screen for easy access. "I mean, the originals occurred one at a time. That was the supposition. There was a time period of approximately one to two weeks in between each invoice with code. Now I have eight, all at once."

"Okay," David said. "What does that mean?"

"Could you have made a mistake?" Caruthers asked. "Maybe some of the invoices really don't contain coded pieces of the formula."

Charlie shrugged. "Always possible," he conceded, "but in this case, I don't think so. There's a certain feel to code, how things fall into place when they've been deciphered." He indicated the small pile of suspect invoices. "There's a high probability that each of those invoices contains a part of the formula that you gave me. The numbers on the invoices weren't random, and I'm not talking account numbers."

David yawned, and tried to cover it up. "I thought that you said that you were looking for the next piece. This sounds like you have something more."

Charlie nodded. "The pattern that the perpetrator used was to take a piece of the chemical formula—which I have, courtesy of the Department of Defense," he added, indicating Lt. Col. Caruthers, "and code it. The selection of the piece appears random. The six previous invoices that Remini pulled out were all parts of the formula. When I did some forward cipher work, I was able to predict what the remainder of the chunks of code would be and that's what I used to scan through these invoices. I expected to find _one_ of these eight," he said aggrievedly. "Instead, I got _all_ eight."

David yawned again. "So you're saying that our perpetrator is sending all eight at once."

"Certainly he's changing the pattern," Charlie agreed.

"The question is: why?"

"I can think of a big reason," Caruthers said grimly. "He's running scared. We put the pressure on, so he's sending all the data at once, before he gets caught." She paled, and put a hand to her mouth. "Excuse me. I have a call to make. To my bosses." She pushed open the door and fled.

Charlie stared after her. "Is she sick?"

"Maybe." David had more important things to consider. "This sounds like Don's plan is working. Any way you can figure out who generated these invoices?"

Charlie shook his head. "It's an automated process. Someone, somewhere, is tampering with it but all it would take is for that someone to plug in through a different computer to hide their trail. Too many people write down their security passcode and leave it lying around. SW Chemicals IT people could figure out the trail pretty quick, but it likely wouldn't lead anywhere."

David sighed, and covered another yawn. "Okay. Then let's move onto Phase Two of Don's plan. You ready?" He dropped into the chair at the other end of the table.

There was a knock at the door, and Brunette entered with a tray of coffee cups with a plate of pastries on the side. "Mr. Hathaway had this sent up from the cafeteria," she said, setting the tray onto the table. She winked at Charlie. "Have you found anything yet?"

"We've identified—"

David rode over Charlie's words. "We can't discuss anything at this time, Miss…?"

"Lewis. Amy Lewis." The look that she sent Charlie's way was sultry.

Not oblivious, and Charlie blinked. This was freshman behavior that the administrative assistant was showing; Charlie endured it each and every freshman calc class and several times during sophomore Advanced Diff EQ. Granted, the younger students didn't do it as well as this woman with a few more years of life, but Charlie was getting better at ignoring it, and recognizing it. It was the _I want a good grade from Professor Eppes_ look. It still made Charlie nervous; he'd heard too many stories from colleagues about how disappointed students would then try to blackmail the professor into an unearned A. Charlie summoned his willpower.

"Too bad," Amy told them, "but I completely understand." She let her gaze roam over the invoices that Charlie had separated out, and deliberately wrenched her eyes away, letting the pair know that she wasn't going to interfere. "I won't trouble you any further, gentlemen, but you can call on me if you want anything. I'm just down the hall." She looked around, puzzled. "Where is Ms. Stevens? I mean, Col. Caruthers?" Another blinding smile, accompanied by a move that tightened the fabric of her blouse across her chest. "I can't get used to the fact that she wasn't a client. She and Mr. Remini kept it _so_ under wraps." She shrugged. "As I said: call me if I can get you anything."

"We will," David replied, coolly courteous, and Charlie was impressed. Clearly David had learned to deal with this type of aggressive behavior a long time ago. Maybe Quantico taught something like that, how to read through people? Charlie resolved to ask Don about it, sometime over a beer. "Now, if you don't mind?" He indicated the door.

"Not at all." She made an exit, letting the door close behind her.

David made a beeline for the coffee. "Long day yesterday," he muttered, blowing across the liquid to cool it to drinking temperature. "I need this, and tea is not going to cut it. You want some, Charlie?"

"Sure." Charlie accepted a cup, setting it down on the table. He picked up one of the eight suspect invoices. "What about Col. Caruthers? You think she's all right?"

"If she's not, she'll let us know," David replied, pouring in another sip. He fixed Charlie with a stern look. "Right now my assignment is _you_, Charlie."

Charlie started to roll his eyes—then thought better of it.

* * *

><p>Don walked back into the conference room where Colby and Walker were sitting, watching the video camera trained on Charlie across the way. He dropped into a chair beside them.<p>

Walker looked up. "It go as planned, Eppes?"

"Yeah." Don couldn't help the satisfied smile. The brief interview had been everything that he—and Charlie—could have hoped for. "EPA's got Hathaway sweating. The cover up of its toxic waste facility is busting loose, thanks to Charlie and his student. SW Chemicals is going to be regretting its choice of CEO for a very long time."

"Glad we could help," Colby said. "Didn't have anything to do with our case, but still…" He let his voice trail off.

Don stared at the camera, wondering just how long they'd need to wait. The sunshine poured in on his brother through the overlarge picture windows. Charlie was staring at an invoice in his hands, setting it aside, and picking up the next. There was a short stack to one side. David had let him know earlier that Charlie had identified eight of the little buggers already, and had another two hundred or so invoices left to scan. David himself was sitting at the other end of the conference room in a spot where he could watch the door and the rest of the room at the same time.

He frowned. "Where the hell's Caruthers?"

Walker shrugged. "Powdering her nose."

"So how long does that take?" he asked irritably. Granted, women tended to have more clothing to adjust but still…

Something was tickling at Don's thoughts. It wasn't the fact that Caruthers had taken a short break from her responsibility for Don's brother, although that in itself made Don twitch. There was something not quite _right _with the scenario playing itself out in the conference room monitored by the vid-cam they'd hastily installed, and Don was having trouble putting his finger on it—

That was it. Don went cold.

It was the window.

Don was on his feet in a flash. "Colby. Walker. Now!"

"Eppes?" Walker was moving.

"We're checking out the Lyonsgate Hotel."

There was still a murderer on the loose, one who had plugged George Remini through a window very similar to the one that was providing sunshine for Charlie and David right now, and a sniper with those skills could just as easily put a bullet into the conference room where Charlie was working. There was no good reason to think that lightning was going to strike twice, but this was Don's _brother_. Something was telling him that he needed to check out the possible hotel rooms _now_, and Don had been saved too many times by those same gut feelings to ignore them.

They ran.

The eleventh floor of the Lyonsgate was the optimal spot from which to aim, and the three slowed only long enough to snatch up a master key card to get them into the various guest rooms. The elevator was the fastest way up, and Don practically danced with nervousness until the small cage finally opened up onto the target floor.

He held up his hand. They would be silent from here on. If the sniper was here, they couldn't afford to alert him.

Colby stopped Don and Walker, and pointed to the floor. There was a deep pile carpet, blue, and cut into that pile were two slender parallel indentations that would have been dismissed as leftover from the housekeeping staff's cart if the three hadn't seen it before.

"Wheelchair," Colby hissed. "Just like before. When Remini got killed."

Dammit, Don's gut had been right! They advanced swiftly, guns in hand, following the tracks to room 1108.

_Faster! Faster!_ Any minute there could be a quiet _puff_ of sound, indicating that a single bullet was penetrating the sound barrier, arrowing its way through the picture window across the street and into the heart of either Professor Charles Eppes or Special Agent David Sinclair. Either scenario was unacceptable.

_Bingo_. Room 1108, complete with a damaged lock to the door indicating that someone had forced their way in and hadn't cared that someone—like the FBI—would be coming along to notice. Someone inside wasn't planning on spending a lot of time on his task. Taking a moment to obtain a key card hadn't happened.

Don held up his fist: on three.

Three.

Two.

One—

"FBI!" Don yelled, Colby slamming through the door with his shoulder and dropping to the carpet. Don and Walker darted in over him, handguns trained on the figure hunched by the guestroom window overlooking the SW Chemicals building.

Don would remember the details later: the immaculately made bed with the beige covering, the small table in front of a sitting bench with an elegantly bound book entitled 'Lyonsgate. For the Discriminating Guest' on top of it. He'd even remember a flash of green foil from the direction of the king size bed, indicating that the illegal occupant of the room hadn't snatched up the fresh mint on the pillow.

The main items he took in immediately: a man in a wheelchair, rifle held to his shoulder, aiming through the window in the general vicinity of SW Chemicals across the street. Whether or not the man was aiming at Charlie and David was irrelevant. It could have been any of three conference rooms in the SW Chemicals building, even Hathaway or Vorgen or even Charlie's friend from the EPA who was giving the two businessmen grief over their involvement in the Chadford affair. If not stopped, someone was going to die in the next few seconds.

"Freeze!" Walker barked, handgun in both hands, aiming at the back of the man's head.

The man stopped, muscles tensed. Don could all but see the thoughts whirling inside the brain: consequences of pulling the trigger. The thought of three bullets entering the back of his head, killing him instantly. Would it be worth it?

No. The man relaxed his shoulders, a non-verbal indication of surrender.

Even from the back, Don knew who it was. "Put the gun on the floor, Pantini," he directed, not taking his eyes off of the mayor of Chadford for an instant. "It's over."

One last clench, one more involuntary tightening of the knuckles around the stock of the weapon, and Pantini let the long-barreled weapon slide to the carpet.

"Turn around. Slowly," Walker directed, toeing the rifle out of the way of the wheels.

Pantini had to use his hands to do so, but the fight was gone. Don knew it, saw it in every line of the man's posture. "It's over," he said, to emphasize the point.

Pantini looked straight at Don. "No, it's not," he replied, tired and angry lines set in his face. "It's not over, Eppes. I've still got a town filled with sick people who are never going to recover from what that company did. How do you get over that?"

No answer to that, only moving forward to fasten handcuffs around the man's wrists.

What none of them expected was a low sonic boom, a sound that shook the building they were in. None of them envisioned that a dark gray cloud of smoke would come billowing out of the window where just moments ago Evan Pantini had been prepared to send a bullet.


	13. Nightmare

Dammit, the coffee was supposed to keep him awake! David Sinclair wasn't normally a coffee drinker—tea was more his speed—but the non-stop pace and a lack of sleep was taking its toll. What he really needed was an opportunity to take a brisk walk up and down the corridor, get the blood flowing again, but he couldn't leave Charlie alone.

He stared at the back of Charlie's head, wondering how the man could keep pouring over each paper without stopping. The man wasn't human, David decided. He was a computer wearing a man's body, barely coming up for air.

Where the hell was Caruthers? How long would the woman take in the ladies' room? If she was sick, let her tell someone and go home so that the rest of them could re-deploy their forces and get it over with.

So tired. Too…tired…to…get…up…

* * *

><p>One minute he was staring at the cloud of dark smoke emerging from the window of the twelfth floor of the SW Chemicals building and the next Don was dashing across the street, stopping traffic and having no memory of running through the lobby of the Lyonsgate. He was aware of Walker beside him, keeping up and panting into his cell something about an emergency and sending all available police and fire units. Colby had longer legs, but Don was swinging his faster. Don too was using his cell, trying to get hold of David. All in vain; David wasn't picking up, and that wasn't a good sign.<p>

It got tougher to make progress. It was an orderly evacuation of the SW Chemicals building but pushing against the near-panicked employees was almost impossible.

_Almost_. "Out of the way!" Don shouted, shoving his way through. Walker made use of the path that Don created, while Colby forged his own route.

Not the elevators. By now, with the fire alarms screaming, they had been disabled and only someone with a fireman's key would be able to restart them. That left the stairs, all twelve flights of them. More people to fight through, but staying to the right helped.

Sixth floor. Ninth. Tenth. By the eleventh floor the fleeing crowd had vanished, and the trio made better time. Don's legs were screaming for oxygen when he finally was able to emerge onto the floor where Charlie and David were.

The twelfth floor was empty of personnel. Everyone had escaped down the stairs, including all three of the highly decorative gossip-hungry administrative assistants who had just two days ago been undressing Colby with their eyes.

No one was getting undressed right now, either figuratively or literally. The doors to the various offices were closed, indicating that the inhabitants had already left in an orderly fashion, but that wasn't Don's goal. He dashed through the corridor, Colby and Walker in his wake.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit!_ The explosion had been right where he'd feared it would be, in the conference room where Charlie and David had been working. The double doors had been blown off their hinges and were now leaning crazily against the walls. Even as Don ran forward, one pulled loose from its moorings to land onto the carpeted floor with a _huff_.

"Careful, Eppes," Walker growled. "Go in slow. You don't want the world to come down on your head."

Yes, he did. He most certainly did. Anything so that he wouldn't have to deal with the devastation that was going to be punching him in the face in two seconds when he looked inside that room.

"Look! It's Caruthers!" Colby darted ahead, past the open door, to the body crumpled on the other side of the hall outside of the conference room. He checked for a pulse. "She's alive."

"Look after her," Don ordered. He steeled himself for the worst.

The conference room had been blown apart. The window had been shattered; a distant part of Don noted that there were very few glass fragments on the thick carpet beneath the window, verifying his observation that the bomb had exploded inside the room. The glass would have fractured outward, with the splinters of glass landing on the street below. One chair had been torn to shreds, and another miraculously kept the seat cushion intact although the legs were broken beyond repair. The invoices, all thousand plus of them, were scattered throughout the room with more wafting out through the broken window and heading slowly down to street level. There was soot all over the walls, more toward the outside wall, demonstrating that most of the blast had been aimed in that direction. Don caught his breath, wondering what had happened to the body parts. The last time he'd seen a scene this bad, it had come with pieces of arms and legs. The nightmares had lasted three weeks.

This one would never go away.

Table. He latched onto the sight: the mahogany table that Charlie had sat behind while going through those damn invoices. He could do it faster than a computer, Charlie had said. It would take time to set up the equipment to scan the paper invoices, Charlie had said. It wouldn't be dangerous, _Caruthers_ had said, not with three FBI agents, an LAPD cop, and a DoD lieutenant colonel standing around, watching for trouble.

Don hadn't argued hard enough to prevent them from dragging Charlie out of the hospital with his arm still in a sling. Wouldn't happen again. Just let him get Charlie out of this mess in one piece, and he'd never let the kid hang on his coattails again. Charlie's consulting days, where he'd come up against real life, were _over_.

One place left, and it was the mahogany table that was tossed over onto its side. The top of the table, once a highly polished elegant piece of wood, was now blackened with smoke and soot. A corner had been completely blown away, the remnants a pile of splinters and ashes in the corner. But…

"Charlie?" Tried again. "David?"

Nothing. Not a murmur. Don picked his way through the debris, Walker in his wake. There was only one place to look for two dead bodies, and that was it. Nothing could have lived through the explosion. He took a deep breath, trying not to cough on the smoke.

He placed gentle fingers along the edge of the table top, feeling the leftover heat from the explosion, and pulled. Walker, on the other end of the table, did the same.

There were two bodies hidden behind the table top: Charlie and David. Don caught his breath; Charlie's arm was curled over his head, and David had done his best to shield his charge from the blast. _That was Sinclair: a professional to the very end_.

Then—

Breathing.

Shallow, but breathing. Both of them.

* * *

><p>"She did—" Don lowered his voice with an effort, aiming a guilty glance at the two men to either side of him, both flat on their backs in hospital beds and unconscious. "Caruthers did what?" he asked in a harsh whisper.<p>

It wasn't him that Don was angry with, so Colby had no fear of the answer. "She told 'em to go ahead with the shipments, Don. The invoices are gone. Vamoosed. On their way to Eastern Europe, with no hope of calling 'em back. At least, not with any hope of retrieving the invoices. All somebody has to do is walk into the receiving warehouse and look at the manifest."

"Hell," Walker swore, "somebody could even walk through the shipping area of SW Chemicals itself to get a copy of the damn things."

"She was supposed to wait." The anger morphed into fear. "She was supposed to wait until Charlie identified which invoice so that we could set up a sting through Interpol."

Colby looked away. "Yeah, well, when Charlie came up with eight of 'em, apparently she decided that they couldn't wait any more. Said she thought that they could set up a bunch of stings, that Interpol had the manpower to act. She was worried that any more delays would scare off the marks." He snorted. "She had _confidence_ that Charlie would identify every damn one of the invoices in time for Interpol to handle it."

Yeah, well, Don too had confidence in his brother but that didn't mean that he wouldn't cover every base. "I don't suppose she knows which ports those shipments are going to?"

Colby shrugged. "She never figured on the room blowing up."

"Right. Those eight invoices are now scattered around the room, the hall, and the Great Outdoors with the other thousand or so invoices. There's no way in hell now that she could identify which ones are the ones with the codes. Not after that explosion." Don could keep his voice down, but he couldn't keep the sarcasm out. "I hope she has some real understanding bosses, 'cause I sure don't."

A tired female voice entered the discussion. "Neither do I, Agent Eppes. Neither do I." It was Lt. Col. Caruthers herself, on crutches, with a white dressing doing double duty by holding back some wisps of hair. "I take full responsibility for my actions. I'll tell them that." She sighed heavily. "Your brother is remarkable, Agent Eppes. I've never seen anyone do what he did. We had a chance to take down one of the world's worst black market crime syndicate with this, and we blew it. _I_ blew it."

Don glared. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that if the shipment got any later, the people on the receiving ends were going to smell a rat and not show. Dr. Eppes had pulled out eight invoices, and even if he found a couple more, that would be enough to start with. It was working, and I needed time to get people in place to pick up the suspects on the other end. We had the information in our hands," she said, and added bitterly, "or so I thought. Instead, this." Caruthers waved a hand unhappily at the pair in their respective beds.

Don looked away. "If I'd been smarter, I'd have insisted that we make copies of the invoices that Charlie fingered as soon as he pulled them out, gotten the addresses on them to Interpol myself. We didn't have to wait for him to finish the first pass."

"I don't suppose you saw anything that we can connect to the bomb?" Walker wanted to know. "I think it's a pretty good assumption that neither you nor Sinclair over there watched someone come in and plant an explosive device in the room. Who else came in while the professor was working?"

Caruthers headed for the other chair in the room, sank into it gratefully. "It's hard to remember," she complained.

"It's the concussion." Don wasn't stopping. "Keep trying."

"Somebody brought in coffee. One of the administrative assistants, I think."

"Which one?" That was Colby. "Amy, Kristine, or Mary?"

Don raised his eyebrows. "You got their names?"

"You always told me, Don, that you can get information from the best places just by being friendly."

"I didn't mean—" Don stopped himself. This discussion wasn't going to go anywhere that he wanted it to, and they had more important matters to work on.

"It was the blonde," Caruthers said thoughtfully.

"Kristine," Colby supplied.

"Whichever. George always liked her, said that she did good work. Hathaway hired for those positions based on looks, but George appreciated her talents as an administrative assistant," Caruthers told them. She looked at Don. "You're certain it was Pantini that killed him?"

Don nodded. "My people called in; Pantini confessed a little while ago. Said he wasn't aiming at Remini in particular. Just wanted to strike back at the company had done so much damage to his town and to him personally. The murder had absolutely nothing to do with the stealing and transmission of the chemical formula." A thought struck him, and he eyed Caruthers. "You really cared about Remini, didn't you?"

Caruthers didn't answer, not at first, and Don gave her time to collect herself. "You want to know who the real George Remini is? I'll tell you," she said bitterly. "The preliminary intel suggested that George was involved in the illegal transfer of intelligence. I tried to lead him on, played the old 'take the client out to dinner' routine. The secretaries were right: he went after anything in a skirt, and that included one very stupid lieutenant colonel. I quickly figured out that he was innocent as far as the chemical formulas went, and I recruited him to help me. From there he did his usual number on me: the wife who didn't understand him, the distance between him and his kids. I'll give him this, though; he kept it separate from his personal life, as much as he could," she added. "He didn't shove it in his wife's face. I won't, either," Caruthers mused, "and my report isn't going to say anything about it. Will yours, Special Agent Eppes?"

"We'll see." Don wasn't going to commit to anything. Not yet. He got back to the topic at hand. "You said it was the blonde who brought in the coffee."

"That's right. I watched her set down three cups, along with a dish of sugar and creamer." Caruthers jerked her chin at David. "He had some. I didn't have the stomach for it. Your brother took some, although I think he was too engrossed to actually drink it. There was no place for a bomb in that dish, if that's what you were thinking, Agent Eppes. For one thing, the dish wasn't large enough."

"I heard from Forensics," Colby put in. "They checked some of the shards from the coffee mugs, and it looks like someone spiked the coffee. They found traces in David's blood, although not in Charlie. And not in you, Colonel Caruthers." He challenged her with a look.

Caruthers frowned. "That makes sense. Sinclair had some coffee; your brother, Agent Eppes, was too busy."

"And you?"

"The thought of it turned my stomach," Caruthers admitted. She tightened her lips. "It's why I'm like this," and she indicated the crutches, "instead of like that." She jerked her chin at the pair in the beds.

Don had to agree. "But we did make somebody jumpy. Somebody connected with SW Chemicals must have nerves of steel, to keep his cool under these circumstances."

"Somebody who works in the chem lab?" Colby suggested. "They'd have access to enough stuff to make a bomb, maybe even the stuff in the coffee. With us not there to interfere, he could have walked by the conference room and tossed something in. He may have taken his chance when he got it."

Don disagreed. "Someone like that wouldn't have access to the invoices, not easily, and neither would any of the secretaries. We need someone with both. Not Hathaway," he mused. "He's dirty, but it was over the waste storage facility, not this."

"Vorgen?"

"Maybe. He's harder to read."

"George didn't think so," Caruthers mused. "Vorgen wasn't in town when half the stuff starting showing up in Eastern Europe."

"Can you keep your voices down?" a querulous voice broke in.

"Charlie!" Don jumped up. "How are you feeling, buddy?"

"Like crap," Charlie returned without opening his eyes. "My head hurts. It hurts just to think." Then—"David! What about David?" He frantically tried to get up, tried to lift his head to see.

Don grabbed his brother, easing him back onto the bed, Charlie without the strength to resist. "Take it easy, Charlie. David's right over there, next to you."

"He's okay, Charlie," Colby soothed. "He's over there in the other bed, snoring away."

"Good." Charlie seemed to drift off. His energy had been spent.

Don couldn't have that, not yet. "Charlie, what do you remember?"

"About…what…?"

His kid brother was losing ground fast. Don had seen it before with concussion, the fading in and out of consciousness, but it didn't make it any easier to watch and certainly not with his brother.

Colby bent over to speak directly into Charlie's ear. "The bomb, Charlie. Somebody planted a bomb in there while you were working. Who came in?"

"Dunno…Ask…David…"

Colby straightened. "That's all Charlie," he sighed. "Not a clue what's going on around him, but give him an invoice—"

"Eight invoices," Charlie whispered, eyes closed. "Invoice one: account number 87592445. Code fragment 789845361246966. Invoice two: account number 12548754. Code fragment 65458975113625588661266."

"My god," Caruthers breathed, staring, coming to her feet. "How does he…?"

Don was faster on the uptake. "Write those down! Charlie, say again? Charlie, what was invoice number one?" He snatched up a pencil and grabbed a napkin as paper.

"Invoice…three…account…number…54625871." Charlie struggled to get the numbers out. "Code…665246656878665296…" He lost the battle to stay awake.

"Charlie? Charlie?" Don turned to the others. "Colby, get this invoice number over to our people on site. It's not much, but it's a start. I'll get someone here to listen to every word Charlie says in his sleep; maybe we'll get lucky. We already did," he amended quickly, looking down at his brother.

"Who would have thought that he'd remember something like that?" Caruthers was still astounded. "All those unrelated numbers! That's…amazing!"

"That's Charlie," Colby told her. "Be glad he's on our side."

"Do you think he'll remember all eight invoices? All eight of them?"

Don smoothed the dark curls back from his brother's forehead, the hair damp with sweat and pain. Black eye, too, he noted grimly. _Someone has a lot to answer for_. "Yes," he said. Then—"Wait a minute."

"Eppes?" Walker came alive once more.

"We're looking for someone who has access to both the invoices and to chemicals."

"That's right." Caruthers too was interested. "Norman Hathaway has both. George did, too, as well as the other vice presidents."

"But no reason to smuggle the information out," Don pointed out, lowering his voice so as not to disturb either injured man. "In fact, they were doing _better_ by following the rules. And they don't come and go as they please in the building," he added. "They appear in a department, people take notice. The boss is in town."

"But if it's not one of them, then who is it?" Colby was honestly bewildered.

"I have an idea." Don leaned over Charlie to whisper in his ear. "Thanks, buddy."


	14. End Game

The Los Angeles International Airport was, as usual, crowded. The people passing through represented every walk of life, from dark-suited businessmen carrying laptop bags over one shoulder and trailing carry-on luggage behind them to brightly colored young mothers trying to keep track of toddlers screeching about Mickey and Minnie. Here and there someone in uniform hurried on past; some were military, and more were airline personnel heading to and from work. Kiosks and stores lined the corridors, charging outrageous prices, Don reflected, but they got away with it. After taking one look at the price of a cup of coffee, Don chose to postpone that pleasure.

He had teams stationed at other points of exit, but he didn't think that he'd need them. Nevertheless, he checked in with them. "Still awake?"

"Still awake and kicking, Don," Colby assured him. "Nobody's come in through the front entrance yet—wait, I see…yeah, we may have a suspect, Don."

"Did they see you?"

"Nope, not even looking around."

"Okay, then do some following, but keep it discreet, okay? Don't want to scare them off."

"Got it, Don. See you in a few."

Don turned to his temporary partner. "Look alive, Walker. It's almost showtime."

"Can't wait, Eppes." Walker dry-washed his hands with anticipation. "It's time to take 'em _down_."

It didn't take long. Don went for the 'casual tourist' approach and hid behind a copy of the newspaper, watching the passengers as they walked by.

The suspect headed for the front desk to check in. The clerk behind the desk kept her head down as she accepted the suspect's ticket, pretending to process the slip of paper. Then she looked up. "Going someplace, Ms. Lewis?" She pulled off the red wig that disguised her from recognition: it was Lt. Col. Serena Caruthers.

The suspect stepped back, gaping in horror. "You…"

Don closed in from behind, Walker flanking him. "Amy Lewis, you are under arrest for the theft of secure government documents. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

"What?" It was one of the administrative assistants, the brunette. "How—?"

Colby too hustled up from his post at the front entrance. "Too bad, Amy." He winked. "I don't date suspects. Or criminals."

* * *

><p>Charlie clung to Don, hating every minute of it, resenting being so weak that he couldn't even walk to the bathroom without help. He thought he'd left this part of his life in the past, the 'needing Don' piece. Didn't need Don to protect him from bullies any more, didn't need Don to walk him home after school every day—no, just needed Don to keep him from doing a face plant in front of everyone. Dammit, now his vision was going! What would be next, his knees? Yes, that was right, he was staggering like a drunk.<p>

Don chuckled in his ear. "This is normal, Charlie. Happened to me once when I got beaned by a line drive. Remember?"

No, Charlie didn't remember because he had been on the other side of the country when Don was playing pro-ball. Mom would have remembered, he decided. It didn't matter where any of them were; Mom knew everything.

His father was pretty good in that department, too. "Get his head down," Alan Eppes ordered his oldest son. "He's about to pass out."

Yeah, that would be embarrassing. Don was here with Colby, and Lt. Walker, and that Col. Caruthers woman. David was already lying on the sofa across the room, his feet safely up on the pillows so that he didn't have Charlie's opportunity to fall down and make a fool of himself. The Eppes paterfamilias had offered Charlie's home as a place to recuperate, and David had gratefully accepted.

"Hey, injuries sustained in the course of battle," Don told him. "You're allowed to receive help. Here, the sofa's right behind you. I'll make sure that you don't fall."

"Thanks," Charlie whispered, feeling his fingers losing their grip on Don's strong arms. It didn't matter; Don had him securely in his grasp and was lowering him to the soft pillows butting up against his knees.

All of a sudden Charlie realized that his feet were up in the air, his head was down, and Don was wiping his face with a cold cloth. It felt good, even through the pounding headache that hadn't left for the past two days. He swallowed hard, commanding his innards to behave and not embarrass him further. Don arranged the bathrobe over Charlie's bare chest. It felt good, because Charlie suddenly felt hot and cold at the same time, not to mention nauseous.

"He going to throw up? I'll get the basin."

"No, I think he's good now. Charlie? Charlie, you in there?"

His head was still spinning. "I hate this," he said distinctly past the thick feeling in his throat.

"Yeah, it's not much fun," came a voice somewhere in the room, and Charlie struggled to identify it: Lt. Walker.

"Consider yourself lucky to be alive, Charlie," was Colby's contribution. "Both you and David."

"Based on the forensics, it looks like Agent Sinclair recognized the danger and used the table as cover," Caruthers told him. "Impressive, especially when you consider that the suspect confessed to spiking the coffee with some sort of soporific. It didn't work as well as she wanted: I didn't drink any coffee, and neither did Professor Eppes. You, Agent Sinclair, managed to protect Professor Eppes from the bomb she threw in while under the influence. As I said: most impressive."

"It would be even more impressive if I remembered doing it," David grumbled. "I think I lost twenty four hours of my life. I just hope that I don't have a date this weekend that I've forgotten."

"Heck of a case," Walker acknowledged. "Two crimes, completely unrelated. One espionage, the other with a toxic dump. Nice work, Eppes." He left it unclear as to which Eppes he was referring to. "I could do without the fireworks, though. Next time, give me a case without quite so many bombs, you got me?"

"Ditto on that," David said. "What happens next?"

Colby snickered. "You gonna remember this time if we tell you?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Concussion, that's what they said, right? I could do with a little consideration."

Don took pity on both invalids. "The meeting with Jake Stafford of the EPA, Charlie, went really well. Really well, that is, for you and the town of Chadford. It didn't take much for the EPA to determine that the toxic waste had been leaking for years, and that Hathaway had been paying people off to look the other way. When Hathaway heard from us that Vince Zelakis was murdered, he got nervous. He knew all about Zelakis living in the area from the various protests and civil proceedings, and he realized that if he didn't do something quickly, he wouldn't be able to squash all the data. Hathaway called up one of the EPA agents that he was paying, Zachariah Roberts, and gave him a bonus to bomb the waste storage facility into oblivion. We got a confession from Roberts, too: when he found everyone there at the facility, he panicked and threw the bomb in the hopes of killing off everyone who knew anything about possible toxic leaks. Border Patrol picked him up just this morning, trying to sneak into Canada."

"SW Chemicals is finished," Caruthers added. "In addition to all the fines and restitution that they'll have to pay, the government has announced its plans to withdraw all contracts. Uncle Sam," she said virtuously, "doesn't like to be associated with companies who break the law like this."

Walker had his own piece. "Heard that the town of Chadford is gonna erect a memorial to that student of yours, professor."

"They should." Charlie felt an ache in his heart that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. A brilliant young woman had lost her life because of someone's greed. It didn't seem fair. Probably, Charlie reflected, because it wasn't.

The others had moved on. "The FBI got a confession out of Amy Lewis," Colby told the pair.

"Who?" That was David.

"One of the administrative assistants, the brunette one," Don said. "She was approached some six months ago by members of the Eastern European black market who knew that she was in a position to obtain information. They were the ones who set up the way to smuggle information out of the country through the invoices. They had intended for it to go on for years, picking up more and more information. There's some suggestion that she might be a mole, but people are still trying to figure that one out."

"Sure, but how did Remini know about the invoices?" Walker asked.

"We may never know," Caruthers said. "George never had the chance to tell me. He was killed before that."

"Which is what set off the whole chain of events," Don concluded. "Evan Pantini was the sniper, with skills picked up in the military. He'd been fighting SW Chemicals in court for years with no success, watching people in the town and himself get sicker and sicker, and his anger got the better of him. He didn't care who he killed; George Remini was the unlucky guy that was easiest to put sights on." He looked at Charlie. "When you showed up, Chuck, he panicked. You told him that you were working for the FBI, and Pantini jumped to the conclusion that you were investigating _him_. He shot you, then moved your car onto the main road toward Bakerfield for someone else to hijack. There was absolutely no connection from Pantini to the intelligence smuggling, but it brought LAPD and the FBI in on the case, and the whole thing unraveled from there. Two completely separate cases, one big conclusion."

Caruthers looked at the clock on the end table. "And that, gentlemen, is my cue to exit. My flight back to Washington is waiting, as are the reports from a number of Interpol operations that have apprehended several black market crime lords." She stood up, looking down on Charlie. "Professor Eppes, it's been an honor to work with you and with the FBI. I hope to have the opportunity to invite you to Washington sometime."

Charlie felt at a distinct disadvantage lying flat on his back and waiting for narcotic pain-killers to kick in, but he mustered up some courtesy. "Thank you. The pleasure has been all mine," he lied. _And I've been to Washington all too many times, every instance when a unique cipher pops up that somebody won't trust to travel through conventional internet channels._

Caruthers nodded, accepting his words. "Gentlemen," she said once more, allowing Alan to escort her to the door.

Alan returned to the group and seated himself in an easy chair. "Nice lady. Wonder if she'll opt for desk duty for a while, or just muster out?" he mused. "None of my business, really."

Colby perked up, along with the rest of the crowd. "What do you mean?"

"Huh." Alan lifted his cup of coffee for a sip. "Isn't it obvious? She's with child."

"What?" Don was astounded, echoing Charlie's own feelings. "Dad, what are you…" He trailed off. "Now it makes sense."

"Yeah," Colby agreed. "We can figure out now why she was in the john when the bomb went off."

"Not quite what I meant, Colby."

"What _did_ you mean, Eppes?" Walker asked.

"I thought she knew George Remini a little too well at times for a real business relationship," Don explained. "I just didn't put it together. How much you want to bet that the late George Remini is about to be a father?" He looked accusingly at his father. "How did you know?"

Alan shrugged. "There are some women who just show it. What, you can't see it?"

A quiet chuckle from David. "Always told you, Don, that we ought to hire your father to teach the rookies."

"Yeah," Walker chimed in, "look at how good he did with you, Eppes. Two seconds with her, he picks it up. You, you got to be told."

"Oh, like you figured it out, Walker?" Don pushed back with a grin. "I'm inviting you to the new Eppes School of Mathematics and Detection, run by my father and my brother." He looked down at Charlie, a rueful expression appearing. "You look like crap." He jerked his thumb at the other invalid in the room. "Take your cue from David. Take a nap." A long snore from that worthy filled the air, and Don had to grin at the timing.

"I feel like crap," Charlie whispered. He looked up at his brother. "But, considering the alternative, really pretty good."

"That's our signal to go." Colby stood up. He glanced over at his own partner, couldn't help the automatic worried expression that crossed his face. "Don, I'll check back in with you tomorrow." He grimaced. "I got a couple of reports to write."

Walker too got to his feet, and Charlie envied their ability to do so. Walker gave a casual salute. "Pleasure doing business, Eppes, professor. Let me know the next time the two of you pair up to do a tag team on a couple of cases, and I'll make sure to be on vacation that week. You two play rough."

"Yeah, one monster with two tales to tell," Don agreed after showing his guests to the door. He sat down where he could see Charlie, and frowned. "You really do look like crap, Charlie. You sure you're okay?"

Charlie sighed, and sank deeper into the pillows. "A lot better off than the people of Chadford," he admitted.

Don reached over to adjust the light blanket that his father had brought down for Charlie's use. "You got that right, Chuck."

"Two brothers, two cases, and two conclusions," Alan Eppes said. "I'd say that's enough for right now. Except that I'm proud of both of my sons, for both of their contributions."

Charlie smiled faintly. "Thanks, Dad."

"Go to sleep, Chuck."

"Yes, Don."

* * *

><p>The end.<p> 


End file.
